OVP.TSHID 


BY  EDWAED 
SALISEVEY 
~  I  E  L  D 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
Professor 
"•ichard  K.   Murdoch 


m 


MARIAN  STANDISH 


A  SIX-CYLINDER 


ffly 

EDWARD  SALISBURY  FIELD 


Frontispiece  by 

HARRISON  FISHER 

Illustrations  by 

CLARENCE  F.  UNDERWOOD 


NEW  YORK 
GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


MARIAN  STANDISH    .....    Frontispiece 


PAGE 
•*  Where  to  ?  **  /  <u£e<£  touching  my  cap.  ,          .  9 


Tften  t/ou   /r'e  politely,   ivhile  Inwardly  you  curse 

Bellaire .*....         31 


A  girl,  accompanied  by  a  man  whom  I  had  seen 

once  before,  walked  into  the  room*        .     «     .         62 


I  felt  tike  apologizing  to  him,  and  I  did  so — with  a 

twenty-dollar  bill.  .*.,«»*..         75 


"  Thank  you,  but  I  prefer  to  nalfa."     •     •    •    •      7/P 


At  a  safe  distance,  1  set  her  down ;  then  turned 

abruptly •       126 


A  Six~Cylinder  Courtship 


THE  romance  of  my  life  began  when  a 
puff  of  wind  landed  a  speck  of  dust 
in  Jimmie  Redmond's  left  eye.  It 
was  an  obstinate  speck  of  dust;  Jimmie  winked 
and  rubbed  and  went  through  all  the  approved 
motions,  but  he  couldn't  dislodge  it.  So  I 
tooted  down  Lexington  Avenue  (we  had  just 
made  the  run  from  Ardsley)  to  the  corner  of 
Thirty-fourth  Street,  where  Jimmie  hopped 
out  and  entered  a  drug  store.  I  don't  know 
whether  druggists  take  a  special  course  in  it, 
but  they  always  seem  to  be  able  to  remove  a 
speck  of  dust  from  a  fellow's  eye. 

The  first  thing  I  did,  then,  was  to  put  on 
7 


8       A   SIX  CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

my  goggles.  I'm  awfully  thankful  I  did,  too; 
for  that  instant  Fate  turned  the  corner  and 
tried  to  throw  dust  in  my  eyes.  Instead,  I 
threw  dust  into  the  eyes  of  Fate. 

I  don't  remember  whether  Fate  was  rated  a 
goddess  in  the  classic  literature  of  yesterday 
or  not.  If  not,  times  have  changed,  for  my 
Fate  was  a  goddess.  Bewitchingly  slender 
and  petite,  with  a  vivid,  alluring  face  and  the 
nicest  eyes  in  the  whole  world,  she  stopped 
beside  the  car.  And  when  she  asked  me  a 
question,  I  threw  in  my  mental  clutch  so 
awkwardly  that  I  seemed,  for  a  moment,  to 
have  stripped  my  transmission-gear  of  speech. 
There  I  sat,  like  an  idiot,  my  hands  on  the 
steering  wheel. 

Then  she  repeated  her  question,  and  I  was 
conscious  of  being  towed  into  Heaven  by  an 
angel  at  the  rate  of  six  thousand  miles  per 
minute.  This  mad  burst  of  speed,  however, 
did  not  prevent  me  from  answering  her  ques 
tion.  "Yes,  miss,"  I  said,  "this  car  is  for 
hire." 

"It  looks  like  a  good  car,"  she  observed, 
"and  I'm  in  a  great  hurry." 

With  that  I  leaped  to  the  sidewalk  and 
opened  the  tonneau  door. 


"  Where  to?  "  1  askeJ,  touching  my  cap. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP       9 

"Where  to?"  I  asked,  touching  my  cap. 

She  gave  me  a  number  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

Scared  pink  for  fear  Jimmie  Redmond 
would  appear,  I  lost  no  time  in  starting.  What 
a  blessing  that  I  hadn't  killed  my  engine!  I 
rounded  the  corner  on  to  Thirty-fourth  Street 
(I  had  stopped  my  car  on  Lexington  Avenue) 
with  the  caution  of  a  timid  mariner  rounding 
the  Horn;  Jimmie  Redmond  was  the  rock  on 
which  I  feared  to  wreck,  and  I  prayed,  as  only 
a  heathen  can,  that  I  might  make  the  turn 
with  no  mishap.  Past  the  lamp-post  on  the 
corner,  past  the  Thirty-fourth-Street  entrance 
to  the  drug  store.  "The  gods  are  kind,"  I 
thought,  and  threw  in  the  high  speed. 

"Hey,  Billy!" 

I  glanced  over  my  shoulder,  and  there  was 
Jimmie,  racing  after  me. 

As  if  that  wasn't  enough,  the  girl  called  my 
attention  to  him.  "Somebody  seems  to  want 
you,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  miss,"  I  acknowledged,  opening  the 
throttle  wider. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  stop  ?" 

"No,  miss." 

"But it  may  be  important." 

"It  isn't,  miss." 


io     A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

"I  must  insist  on  your  stopping,"  she  said. 
"At  once,"  she  added,  as  she  saw  I  made  no 
motion  to  obey.  And  that  with  Jimmie  a 
whole  block  in  the  rear! 

I  suppose  I  might  have  lied  to  her — might 
have  invented  some  excuse — but  I  didn't.  In 
the  first  place,  I  could  think  of  no  proper  ex 
cuse;  in  the  second  place,  her  command  to 
stop  was  so  imperious  that  I  dared  not  dis 
obey,  for  fear  of  spoiling  everything.  You  may 
scorn  me  as  one  entirely  lacking  in  plausible 
invention  if  you  will,  but  who,  pray,  can  plan 
rapidly  when  his  mind  is  filled  with  vexatious 
thoughts  ?  I  was  far  too  busy  cursing  Jimmie 
to  execute  a  brilliant  coup,  much  less  plan  one. 

I  had,  however,  one  flash  of  inspiration — a 
primitive  flash,  perhaps,  but,  like  all  primitive 
things,  begot  of  common-sense.  There  is  an 
axiom  in  the  world's  manual  of  tactics,  gospel 
alike  to  soldier,  sailor,  chauffeur  and  second- 
story  man;  it  rez.ds:  "If  you  can't  run,  face 
the  enemy." 

Of  course,  when  my  fair  passenger  had  in 
sisted  that  I  stop,  I  had  stopped;    whereat 
Jimmie  Redmond,  who  by  this  time  had  prob 
ably  quite  given  up  hope  of  catching  me,  took 
heart  and  jog-trotted  toward  us.    Then  it  was 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     u 

I  executed  this  most  excellent  manoeuvre,  in 
accordance  with  the  axiom  before  mentioned, 
and  turned  sharply  round. 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  find  out  what  he 
wants,  miss,"  I  remarked  in  my  best  anything- 
to-oblige-a-lady  manner,  as  we  crawled  slowly 
toward  the  enemy. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said. 

Jimmie  Redmond  is  supposed  by  his  friends 
• — some  of  his  friends — to  be  a  man  of  un 
usually  quick  perceptions.  But  of  all  the 
stupid,  blundering  asses ! 

As  he  came  toward  us  he  Was  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  a  human  interrogation  mark — 
questioning  eyebrows,  questioning  eyes,  and 
why-in-thunder-did-you-leave-me  ?  written  all 
over  his  face.  That  the  girl  didn't  read  the 
whole  story  at  a  glance  was  nothing  short  of 
a  miracle.  Perhaps  Fate  threw  some  dust  in 

her  eyes  just  then.  Or  perhaps But  I'll 

leave  that  for  you  to  decide. 

There  is  another  axiom  in  the  world's  man 
ual  of  tactics  which  reads:  "When  face  to 
face  with  the  enemy,  intimidate  him  if  pos 
sible."  This  I  most  earnestly  sought  to  do. 
When  within  twenty  feet  of  Jimmie  I  leaned 
over  the  wheel,  and,  sheltered  from  the  ador- 


12     A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

able  eyes  of  my  most  adorable  passenger, 
scowled  threateningly,  shaking  my  fist  the 
while.  If  I  hadn't  needed  one  hand  to  steer 
with  I'd  have  shaken  both  fists. 

While  I  cannot  say  much  for  Jimmie's  per 
ceptions — that  is,  much  that  is  complimentary 
—my  attitude,  so  alarmingly  belligerent,  un 
doubtedly  impressed  him.  He  stopped  short 
and  gazed  at  me  like  one  in  a  dream — an  un 
pleasant  dream. 

Though  puzzled,  he  was,  alas!  as  miserably 
interrogative  as  ever;  his  eyes  and  eyebrows 
were  quite  as  questioning.  The  one  mitigating 
feature  in  his  conduct  was  that  he  let  me  speak 
first.  Even  there,  perhaps,  I  am  too  generous; 
I  might  better  say  that  I  spoke  first. 

"Did  you  wish  anything,  sir?"  I  asked  as 
I  brought  the  car  to  a  halt  at  the  curb. 

"Well,  really,  old  chap  -       ''  he  began. 

"Did  you  wish  anything,  sir  ?"  I  repeated, 
with  a  menacing  look  in  my  eyes. 

"Er — I  don't  know,"  he  stammered 
feebly. 

"He  doesn't  know,"  I  said,  turning  respect 
fully  to  my  passenger. 

"Of  course  I  know!"  Jimmie  declared  in 
dignantly. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      13 

"  Of  course  you  know,  sir, "  I  agreed.  "  But 
if  it  isn't  important,  I'd  like  to  go  on,  sir,  as 
this  lady  has  hired  the  car.  No  offense  to  you, 
sir." 

"Oh,  if  it's  like  that!"  said  Jimmie. 

"Very  well,  sir.     Good-day,  sir." 

We  left  Jimmie  standing  on  the  curb,  the 
picture  of  astonishment. 


II 


ONCE  more  we  started  on  our  way  to 
ward  Fifth  Avenue.  The  beautiful 
girl  in  the  tonneau  may  have  been  a 
bit  suspicious  of  me;  I  do  not  know.  Certain 
ly,  Jimmie  had  done  his  best  to  spoil  every 
thing.  But  had  he  succeeded  ?  And  what  was 
everything  ?  I  might  wait  at  the  corner  of 
Lexington  Avenue  and  Thirty-fourth  Street 
till  my  tires  rotted,  and  yet  never  lay  eyes  on 
my  passenger  again.  I  could  scarcely  hope 
for  a  repetition  of  this  charming  adventure. 

But,  surely,  there  must  be  a  way.  Sup 
posing  I  were  to  cut  rates  ?  No  matter  how 
rich  people  are — she  didn't  look  a  bit  poor — 
they  enjoy  getting  things  at  half  price.  I 
would  make  her  a  price  of  two  dollars  and  a 
half  an  hour.  That  might  arouse  her  sus- 
14 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      15 

picions,  but  what  woman  ever  allowed  her 
suspicions  to  stand  in  the  way  of  her  getting  a 
bargain  ?  "Two  and  a  half,  marked  down 
from  five!  If  that  doesn't  fetch  her,  nothing 
will,"  I  thought.  Then  I  stopped  the  car,  for 
we  were  in  front  of  the  shop  she  was  seeking, 
a  millinery  shop.  That  settled  it;  she  was 
rich. 

As  I  descended  from  the  car  to  help  her 
alight,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  myself,  mirrored 
in  the  window.  While  indistinctly  reflected, 
the  glimpse  was  most  reassuring;  a  more  dis 
reputable-looking  person  would  have  been 
hard  to  find.  Indeed,  I  was  almost  too  untidy 
to  look  professional;  what  with  dust  (Jimmie 
and  I  had  repaired  a  puncture  on  the  road) 
and  grease  (I  seem  to  have  a  genius  for  rub 
bing  against  grease)  I  was  a  sight  to  behold. 
My  goggles  added  the  last  touch.  There  was 
no  doubt  of  it :  I  was  the  real  thing. 

"I  sha'n't  need  you  any  longer,"  she  said, 
as  she  stepped  to  the  sidewalk.  "How  much 
is  it,  please  ? " 

"A  dollar,  miss.    My  rates  is  two  dollars 
and  a  half  an  hour." 

"Isn't  that  unusually  cheap  ?" 

"It's  half  rate,  miss." 


i6     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

"  Do  you  charge  every  one  that  ? " 

"Oh,  yes,  miss!  And  I  makes  more  money 
than  any  of  them,  for  I  never  has  to  hunt  far 
for  customers.  Would  you  be  wanting  me 
again  ? " 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  she  replied  thought 
fully. 

"If  you  ever  want  me,  here's  my  number," 
I  said,  taking  a  pencil  from  my  pocket  and 
writing  hurriedly  on  a  piece  of  crumpled  paper. 
"Just  ring  up  1582  Madison,  Number  7,  and 
ask  for  the  Reliance  Garage,  and  Bill  Snow. 
Thank  you,  miss.  Good-afternoon,  miss." 

And  so  I  left  her. 

With  the  first  dollar  I  had  ever  earned  in 
my  pocket,  and  with  love  in  my  heart,  I  tooted 
up  the  Avenue,  round  the  corner  at  Fifty-sixth 
Street  and  into  my  garage — the  Reliance 
Garage. 

"Sha'n't  I  take  you  home,  Mr.  Snowden  ?" 
asked  little  Jerry  Spinner,  my  guide,  philos 
opher  and  friend  in  the  gasoline  world. 

"No,  thanks,  Jerry,"  I  replied.  "I'll 
walk." 

My  apartment  was  only  a  square  away,  and, 
after  tubbing  and  a  complete  change,  I'm 
sure  my  beautiful  patron  of  the  afternoon 


A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP      17 

wouldn't  have  believed  me  if  I  had  revealed 
my  identity. 

But  two  things  remained  to  be  done,  and 
the  day  was  complete.  "Collins,"  I  said  to 
my  man,  "  if  anybody  rings  up  and  asks  for 
Bill  Snow,  that's  me." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

"And  no  matter  what  time  of  day  or  night 
they  ring,  you  must  call  me." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And,  if  they  ask  if  this  is  the  Reliance 
Garage,  you're  to  say  it  is." 

"Very  well,  sir."   ' 

"And,  Collins " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Don't  let  me  start  out  without  telling  you 
where  I'm  going,  so  you  can  reach  me  in  case 
any  one  telephones." 

Later,  as  I  was  leaving  for  the  club  to  look 
up  Jimmie  Redmond,  I  was  greatly  amazed 
and  equally  angry  to  be  interrogated  by 
Collins: 

"Where  is  it  this  evening,  Mr.  Snowden  ?" 

"Where  is  what  ?"  I  asked  sharply. 

"  I  mean  where  are  you  going,  sir  ? " 

"By  all  the  powers!"  I  exlaimed,  "this 
is "  Then,  suddenly  remembering,  I  told 


1 8     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

him  were  I  was  going,  for  the  sake  of  Bill 
Snow. 

That's  all,  I  think,  except  that  Jimmie  was 
devilish  coy,  disposed  to  unpleasant  comments. 
The  litte  beast! 

And,  yes — I  might  as  well  confess  it,  I  sup 
pose — I  kissed  the  dollar  she  had  given  me 
before  going  to  bed  that  night. 


Ill 


TO  be  the  biggest  frog  in  your  own 
particular  puddle    has    long  been 
considered  an  enviable  distinction. 
And  there  are  no  end  of  puddles:  the  Wall 
Street  puddle,  the  College  Settlement  pud 
dle,  the   Society   puddle  with  its   miniature 
eddies  and  whirlpools,  the  Cherry  Hill  pud 
dle,    the    Mulberry    Bend    puddle In 

short,  New  York,  from  the  Battery  to  the 
Bronx,  is  a  series  of  puddles.  And  in  the 
centre  of  every  puddle  is  a  prize  frog  —  big, 
complacent,  all-powerful,  an  uncrowned  king, 
It  is  not  without  a  certain  pride,  then,  that 
I  announce  my  own  pretentions;  for  behold,  I 
was,  at  this  time,  a  prize  frog  myself,  quite  in 
the  centre  of  a  puddle  of  my  own.  Not  the 
puddle  of  my  club,  where,  truth  to  tell,  I  have 
always  been  rated  rather  a  small  frog,  but  in 


20     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

the  more  exclusive  gasoline  puddle  of  my 
garage,  where,  as  the  patron  with  the  most 
expensive  car,  the  largest  monthly  repair  bill 
and  the  reputation  for  liberality  in  the  matter 
of  tips  and  other  gasoline  gratuities,  I  was  con 
sidered  a  very  big  frog,  indeed. 

The  proprietor  of  the  Garage — the  Reliance 
Garage — recognized  my  superiority  in  count 
less  ways,  much  to  the  disgust  of  owners  of 
less  expensive  cars.  Jones  might  rave  about 
his  brakes  for  a  week,  and  Smith  might  rage 
at  the  condition  of  his  carbureter  till  he  grew 
black  in  the  face,  but  William  Snowden,  Esq. 
(that's  me),  had  only  to  suggest,  and  his  sug 
gestions  were  repeated  as  commands;  Jim 
would  stop  work  on  Jones'  brakes,  and  Pat 
would  drop  Smith's  carbureter  and  attend  to 
Mr.  Snowden's.  Which  was  awfully  nice  for 
Mr.  Snowden,  but  rather  hard  on  Smith  and 
Jones. 

I  had,  however,  one  real  friend,  the  smallest 
frog  in  the  puddle,  who  did  not  eye  my  change- 
pocket  wistfully,  who  did  not  carry  his  pen 
chant  for  perquisites  into  the  field  of  grand 
larceny — Jerry  Spinner,  a  cheerful,  little 
Irishman,  with  fiery-red  hair  and  a  heart  of 
gold.  He  was  my  crutch  in  the  hour  of  short 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      21 

circuits,  my  beacon  of  hope  on  the  dark  sea  of 
chewed-up  bearings,  my  oasis  in  the  desert  of 
stripped  gears.  To  him  I  looked  for  guidance 
as  a  child  looks  to  its  father;  to  him  I  turned 
for  light  as  a  flower  turns  to  the  sun.  And 
Jerry  never  failed  me. 

If  I  were  to  paint  a  picture  symbolic  of 
Truth,  Honesty  and  Patience  I  would  not 
paint  an  anaemic  damsel  with  a  torch  in  her 
hand  and  a  laurel  on  her  brow;  I  would  paint 
Jerry  in  his  dirty,  blue  overalls,  his  grimy 
hands,  his  grease-smudged  face.  Good  old 
Jerry ! 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  then,  that  I 
should  turn  to  Jerry  at  this  time,  particularly 
as  my  happiness  was  so  plainly  dependent 
upon  gasoline.  At  an  early  hour  next  morn 
ing — eight  o'clock  it  was,  and  that's  fearfully 
early — I  had  Collins  ring  up  the  Reliance 
Garage  and  request  the  proprietor  to  send 
Jerry  to  my  apartment  at  once.  On  his  arrival 
I  guardedlv  bared  my  heart  to  him. 

"You  see,  Jerry,  it's  like  this " 

"Yes,  sorr." 

"I  want  my  car  to  stand  up  and  run  as  she's 
never  run  before." 

"Yes,  sorr." 


22     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

"And  I  can't  bother  about  any  repairs." 

Jerry  looked  doubtful. 

"  I  want  you  to  have  her  full  of  gasoline,  and 
cylinder  oil,  and  everything  she  needs,  so  that 
I  can  have  her  at  a  minute's  notice.  She  must 
be  as  clean  as  a  whistle,  and  her  brass  work 
must  outshine  the  sun." 

"Yes,  sorr." 

"I  may  not  want  her  for  two  or  three  days, 
but  I  may  want  her  within  the  hour.  And 
when  I  do  take  her  out,  the  instant  I  bring  her 
in  again  sheVnust  be  refilled  and  cleaned.  By 
the  way,  here's  five  dollars;  it  doesn't  belong 
to  me,  so  it  must  be  yours." 

Jerry  smiled  beatifically. 

"And  Jerry?" 

"Yes,  sorr." 

"Don't  let  anybody  touch  her  unless  you're 
standing  by." 

"Hadn't  ye  better  write  a  line  to  the  boss, 
sorr  ?  There  be  a  new  boy  on  the  floor,  and 
I  misthrust  the  looks  uv  him.  And  there's  me 
day  off  to  be  consithered." 

There  was  wisdom  in  Jerry's  suggestion,  and 
I  adopted  it.  Having  dispatched  the  note  and 
Jerry,  I  proceeded  to  kill  time ;  at  least  I  tried  to 
kill  it,  but  only  succeeded  in  disabling  it  so 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     23 

that  it  crawled  haltingly.  I  read  the  newspaper 
through  without  skipping  a  single  advertise 
ment — hotels,  theatres,  rooms  to  let,  boys 
wanted,  swaps,  second-hand  clothing  bought. 
Truly,  a  dreary  business.  I  played  three 
games  of  Patience. 

Quarter  to  ten!  Would  the  telephone  bell 
never  ring  ? 

Then  I  thought  of  possible  complications. 
I  might  get  caught  in  some  engagement  or 
other  if  I  answered  any  telephone  calls.  To 
avoid  this  danger,  I  instructed  Collins  to  tell 
everybody  who  called  or  rang  up,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  the  person  asking  for  Bill  Snow, 
that  I  was  out  of  town. 

Ten  o'clock,  and  the  telephone  bell  rang. 
I  bounded  hopefully  out  of  my  chair,  only  to 
hear  Collins  say:  "No,  Mr.  Redmond,  Mr. 
Snowden  is  out  of  town." 

Then  nothing  happened  for  an  hour. 

Eleven  o'clock  found  me  desperate.  Twelve 
o'clock  found  me  more  desperate.  Why,  oh 
why  didn't  my  fair  passenger  of  yesterday 
ring  up  Bill  Snow  ? 

At  one  o'clock  I  was  hungry,  yet  dared 
not  go  to  the  club  for  fear  of  meeting  Jim- 
mie  Redmond,  who  had  been  told  that  I 


24     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

was  out  of  town,  so  I  had  luncheon  in  my 
apartment. 

At  two  o'clock  Wallie  Stuart  rang  up,  and 
another  member  of  my  club  was  informed  tha* 
I  was  out  of  town.  Well,  I  could  get  back  to 
town  in  time  to  have  dinner  at  the  club,  at  any 
rate. 

At  three  o'clock  I  sent  Collins  down  to  buy 
half  a  dozen  books,  which  shows  how  up 
against  it  I  really  was,  for  I  never  read  books. 
Collins  returned  with  two  automobile  and  four 
detective  stories.  The  man  who  wrote  the 
first  one  had  never  seen  an  automobile.  The 
man  who  wrote  the  second  one  had  only  seen 
a  catalogue.  The  dectective  stories  were  not 
so  bad.  I  chose  the  red  one  because  my  car 
:s  red,  and  it  was  a  corker;  I  forgot  all  about  Bill 
Snow  and  was  tracking  bandits  through  the 
Sierra  Nevada  Mountains  on  snow-shoes  — 
Then  the  telephone  bell  rang. 

I  waited  with  my  heart  in  my  mouth,  only 
to  hear  Collins  answer:  "No,  Mr.  Redmond, 
Mr.  Snowden  hasn't  returned  yet." 

After  being  interrupted,  I  couldn't  get  in 
terested  in  my  bandits  and  snow-shoes  again, 
so,  tossing  the  book  aside,  I  fell  to  considering 
my  case  and  feeling  sorry  for  myself.  Here  I 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      25 

was,  Love's  prisoner,  a  captive  in  my  own 
apartment,  a  slave  to  my  own  telephone,  by 
George!  I  stalked  up  and  down,  moody  and 
depressed,  till  I  happened  to  glance  toward 
the  window. 

Thank  Heaven!  It  had  clouded  up;  it 
looked  like  a  thunderstorm.  Nobody  would 
want  to  go  riding  in  a  thunderstorm.  Bill 
Snow  was  free  till  to-morrow. 

That's  all.  Only  coming  home  from  the 
club  that  night  I  nearly  gave  the  cabby  the 
dollar  I  had  kissed  the  night  before. 


IV 


I  SLEPT  till  nine  the  next  morning,  and 
on  waking  made  a  dash  for  the  window 
to  see  what  sort  of  day  the  gods  had 
sent  me.  It  was  a  ripping  day,  just  the  kind 
of  day  for  a  beautiful  lady  to  go  shopping  in 
an  automobile,  so  I  jumped  into  my  bath, 
whistling,  and  sipped  my  coffee  and  broke  my 
egg  with  enthusiasm.  I  even  read  the  paper 
with  interest,  and,  on  the  whole,  was  as 
egregious  an  optimist  as  one  could  find  in  a 
day's  journey.  Had  my  old  nurse  been  by 
she  would  have  remarked  that  "Mr.  William 
had  got  up  on  the  right  side  of  his  bed." 

"I'm  out  of  town  again  to-day,  Collins," 
I  announced. 

"And  Mr.  Snow? "asked  the  polite  Col 
lins. 

"Bill  Snow's  on  deck,  same  as  yesterday. 
26 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      27 

And  pray  remember  that  this  particular  apart 
ment  is  the  Reliance  Garage." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

And  so  I  sat  on  one  comfortable  chair,  my 
feet  on  another  comfortable  chair;  and  my 
thoughts  wove  delectable  dreams:  A  knight 
in  splendid  armor  (that  was  me),  with  a  mag 
nificent  dollar  in  his  pocket  (did  knights  have 
pockets  in  their  armor  ?),  was  walking  down 
a  pleached  alley,  leading  by  the  hand  a  glori 
ous  divinity  in  pale-blue  brocade.  Somewhere 
in  a  thicket  a  nightingale  was  singing,  and  the 
air  was  redolent  with  the  perfume  of  roses — and 
of  gasoline 

Then  the  telephone  bell  rang,  and  I  shot 
out  of  my  chair  just  in  time  to  collide  with 
Collins,  who  had  bounded  in  from  the  next 
room. 

"Don't  apologize!"  I  entreated.  "Answer 
the  'phone!" 

Spurred  on  by  my  expression  of  impatience, 
Collins  took  down  the  receiver.  My  head 
whirled  dizzily  with  happiness,  for  Collins  was 
saying:  "Yes,  madam,  this  is  the  Reliance 
Garage." 

"When  she  asks  for  Bill  Snow,  I'll  talk  to 
her,"  I  whispered. 


28     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

Collins*  face  now  assumed  a  puzzled  ex 
pression. 

"Anything  wrong?"  I  asked  feverishly. 

"I'm  afraid  so,  sir." 

"What  is  it?     Quick!" 

"Why,  you  see,  sir,  the  boy  at  the  exchange 
desk  downstairs  must  have  been  listening,  and 
he  had  to  chip  in." 

"Go  on,"  I  commanded. 

"And  when  I  told  the  lady  that  this  was  the 
Reliance  Garage,  he  said,  'Aw,  it  ain't  either, 
it's  the  Luxor  Apartments.'  And  then  — 

"Yes,  and  then?"  I  demanded  fiercely. 

"And  then,  sir,  he  cut  me  off." 

I  know  now  how  Napoleon  felt  when  he  was 
defeated  at  Waterloo,  how  Julius  Caesar  felt 
when  he  was  stabbed  by  Brutus.  For  me  that 
moment  was  the  epitome  of  all  the  tragedies  of 
all  the  centuries.  There  wasn't  a  wretched 
Buttons  in  the  whole  apartment  house  that 
hadn't  been  tipped  by  me  to  the  point  of 
affluence.  And  now  I  was  betrayed,  just  at 
the  moment  of  my  greatest  triumph.  Be 
trayed!  Stripped  of  my  dreams!  Robbed  of 
my  romance! 

But  by  all  that  was  holy  and  unholy — it 
should  not  be!  I  would  conquer  Circum- 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      29 

stance.    I  would  snap  my  fingers  in  the  face  of 
Fate. 

"Collins,"  I  said  in  a  strained,  unnatural 
voice,  "go  downstairs  and  strangle  that  young 
devil  at  the  telephone  desk  until  he  looks  dead. 
Then  hold  a  five-dollar  bill  before  his  eyes 
until  he  revives.  Then  tell  him  that  Apart 
ment  Number  7,  1582  Madison,  is  the  Re 
liance  Garage.  Also,  instruct  him  to  impress 
this  bit  of  exclusive  information  on  the  night 
boy,  and  the  boy  who  relieves  him  during  the 
noon  hour.  Now  go!" 


DID  you  ever  stop  to  think  what  a 
fiendish  invention  the  telephone  is  ? 
Some  days  it  drives  you  nearly  mad 
with  its  constant  ringing ;  again  it  drives  you 
quite  mad  by  its  silence.     You  wish  that  Mrs. 
Johnson  wouldn't  ring  you  up,  and  she  does. 
You  wish  that  Miss  Johnson  would  ring  you 
up,  and  she  doesn't.    You  go  out  for  an  hour, 
and  on  your  return   are   informed  that  Mr. 
Bellaire  has  telephoned. 

"Did  he  leave  any  message?" 
"No,  sir." 

Then  you  fall  to  wondering  what  on  earth 
Mr.  Bellaire  wanted. 

Nothing  that  Mr.  Bellaire  has  said  or  done 
in  the  ten  years  that  you  have  known  him  has 
ever  interested  you,  yet  now  your  curiosity  is 
3° 


Then  you  lie  politely,  Tvhile  inwardly  you  curse  Be/Zaire. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      31 

aroused.  What  in  thunder  could  he  have 
wanted  anyway  ? 

Finally,  you  can  stand  it  no  longer.  You 
call  up  Bellaire  at  his  club,  at  his  office,  at  his 
house — only  to  learn  that  he  wishes  you  to 
attend  one  of  his  informal,  dreary,  little  din 
ners,  to  meet  a  long-haired  Russian,  who  has 
written  a  novel  you've  never  read. 

Then  you  lie  politely,  while  inwardly  you 
curse  Bellaire,  curse  yourself  for  being  such 
an  ass  as  to  ring  him  up,  and  resolve  never, 
never,  never  to  do  it  again.  But  to-morrow 
finds  you  equally  curious,  and  correspondingly 
asinine. 

It  is  easy  enough  to  evolve  a  telephone 
philosophy  now.  But  as  I  paced  the  room  in 
my  apartment  that  morning,  hoping  against 
hope  that  the  Lady  of  My  Heart  would  make 
another  try  for  the  Reliance  Garage — 1582 
Madison,  Number  7 — I  was  far  from  being  a 
philosopher.  Instead,  I  burned  with  a  mad 
rage  toward  all  little  boys  in  brass  buttons, 
and  was  possessed  with  a  primitive  desire  to 
wreck  every  telephone  office  in  town.  Indeed, 
I  longed  to  go  for  the  telephone  companies 
with  an  axe. 

My  one  consolation  arose  from  the  fact  that 


32     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

Collins  was  supposed  to  be  strangling  the  boy 
at  the  desk  downstairs.  Even  there,  however, 
I  had  my  doubts;  Collins  was  so  uniformly 
gentle  and  good-natured.  There's  a  lot  in 
that  old  saying:  "If  you  want  a  thing  well 
done,  do  it  yourself." 

Then  the  telephone  bell  rang,  and  on  taking 
down  the  receiver  I  heard  the  sweetest  voice 
in  the  world  asking:  "Is  Bill  Snow  there?" 

"This  is  Bill  Snow." 

"  Is  your  automobile  engaged  for  this  after 
noon  ? " 

"No,  miss." 

"Will  you  come  to  No. — ,  Central  Park 
West,  at  two  ?  Two  sharp,  please  ?" 

"Yes,  miss.     Who  shall  I  ask  for?" 

"For  Miss  Standish." 

"Very  good,  miss.    I'll  be  there.    Good-by." 

Would  I  be  there  ?  Would  Bill  Snow  be  at 
No. — ,  Central  Park  West,  at  two  p.  M.  ?  Just 
wouldn't  he,  though  ? 

And  her  name  was  Standish!  Mrs.  William 
Snowden — nte  Standish !  Once  more  my  castle 
in  the  air  was  complete.  Mrs.  William  Snow- 
den — nee  Standish !  But  it  was  quite  necessary 
that  Bill  Snow  should  come  back  to  earth  and 
get  busy. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     33 

The  first  thing  I  did,  then,  was  to  ring  uf 
the  garage  and  tell  Jerry  Spinner  that  the  cat 
must  be  ready  for  me  at  half-past  one. 

When  Collins  showed  up  a  moment  later, 
I  was  a  regular  human  sunbeam,  radiating 
warmth,  happiness  and  contentment  into 
every  corner  of  the  room. 

"  I  hope  you  didn't  hurt  the  poor,  dear  lad," 
I  said. 

"Well,"  said  Collins,  and  his  eyes  twinkled, 
"  I  estimate  that  the  finger-marks  on  his  throat 
will  wear  ofFin  a  few  days,  sir." 

"A  five-dollar  bill  makes  an  admirable 
poultice — eh,  Collins?" 

"It  do,  indeed,  sir." 

I  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning  deciding 
what  clothes  I  should  wear.  When  a  man's 
in  love  he  naturally  wants  to  look  his  best 
when  appearing  before  his  divinity,  and  that 
was  the  one  thing  in  the  world  I  dared  not 
attempt.  I  finally  settled  on  an  old  brown 
suit.  Then  I  asked  Collins  for  a  needle  and 
thread. 

"Is  it  something  I  can  do  for  you,  sir?" 

"No,  thank  you.  Just  a  threaded  needle, 
please.  And  I  want  the  thread  to  be  strong, 
you  understand." 


34     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

"Silk,  sir?" 

"No,  just  thread." 

I  made  a  clumsy  job  of  it,  perhaps;  but 
when  I  had  finished,  the  magic  dollar,  the  dol 
lar  She  had  given  me,  the  round  dollar  of 
Destiny,  was  sewed  snugly  into  my  waistcoat 
pocket. 

"No  risk  of  spending  you  now,  old  chap," 
I  murmured,  as  I  patted  the  pocket  affec 
tionately. 


VI 


AT  the  garage  I  found   Jerry  Spinner 
giving    an    extra    rub    to    my   gas 
lamps.     I'm   sure  it  was   affection 
that  prompted  him  to  do  it,  for  no  car  ever 
shone  more   resplendently;    the   brass    work 
WT>uld   have   done  credit   to   a    man-of-war, 
while  the  beautiful  red  body  was  like  satin — 
faultless,  shimmering  satin. 

I  tell  you,  it  makes  a  fellow's  blood  tingle 
to  look  at  a  car  like  mine,  and  feel  that  it  be 
longs  to  him;  a  car  that  will  start  on  the  direct 
drive,  a  car  that  will  race  a  railroad  train  or 
jog  contentedly  behind  a  milk  cart,  a  car  that 
can  make  a  steep  hill  ashamed  of  itself;  a 
wild,  dashing  car  that  eats  up  the  miles;  a 
faithful,  sweet-running  car  that  purrs  like  a 
pussy-cat!  To  own  such  a  car  is  to  own  a  king 
dom;  the  driver's  seat  is  a  throne,  the  steering- 
35 


36     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

wheel  a  sceptre,  miles  are  your  minions  and 
distance  your  slave. 

To  be  sure,  there  are  sixty  horses  to  manage, 
and  sometimes  they  buck,  sometimes  they 
balk.  But  that  isn't  often.  And  when  you 
have  them  well  in  hand  there  is  nothing  you 
need  fear  save  brass  buttons  and  a  helmet,  a 
nail,  or  a  bit  of  broken  glass  on  the  road. 

If  ever  a  car  ran  sweetly,  mine  did  that 
afternoon.  I  rang  the  bell  at  No. — ,  Central 
Park  West,  with  the  timidity  of  a  butcher's 
boy  who,  having  found  the  area  gate  fastened, 
has  ventured  to  deliver  the  mutton  chops  by 
way  of  the  front  door. 

A  gloomy-looking  man  in  livery  answered 
the  bell. 

"The  automobile  for  Miss  Standish,"  I 
announced  briefly. 

He  regarded  me  coldly,  and,  after  a  disap 
proving  glance  at  the  car,  shut  the  door  in  my 
face. 

Ten  minutes  passed — ten  miserable,  doubt 
ing  minutes!  Then  the  front  door  opened,  and 
a  dear,  little,  old  lady  in  lavender  silk  came 
slowly  down  the  steps,  attended  by  the  gloomy 
man  in  livery. 

My  heart  sank.    Wasn't  She  coming  ?    Was 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      37 

I  to  take  Auntie  and  the  pet  poodle  for  an 
airing  ? 

As  if  in  answer  to  my  thoughts,  a  maid  now 
appeared  leading  a  black  poodle  of  the  Rus 
sian  variety,  fearfully  and  wonderfully  shaved, 
with  a  woolly  head,  a  bare  back,  muffs  on  its 
legs  just  above  the  ankle,  and  a  tassel  on  its 
tail. 

By  this  time  I  was  ready  to  scream  with  rage 
and  disappointment.  I  almost  forgot  to  touch 
my  cap;  I  quite  forgot  to  open  the  tonneau 
door,  and  the  manner  in  which  that  black 
guardly  Beau  Brummel  from  below-stairs  did 
it  for  me  was  at  once  a  lesson  in  deportment 
and  a  reprimand. 

The  little  lady  in  lavender  was  now  safe  in 
the  tonneau,  the  black  poodle  beside  her. 
After  bowing  respectfully,  Beau  Brummel 
and  the  maid  had  withdrawn  to  the  house, 
closing  the  front  door. 

Once  more  Fate  had  slapped  me  in  the  face. 
No  wonder  my  cheeks  burned!  Two  lines  of 
derisive  doggerel  I  had  heard  somewhere  ran 
mockingly  through  my  head: 


Smarty,  Smarty  gave  a  party, 
And  nobody  came. 


38     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

I've  strained  at  gnats  and  swallowed  heaps 
of  camels  in  my  day,  but  I've  never  swallowed 
harder  than  I  did  over  that  poodle. 

Smarty,  Smarty  gave  a  party, 
And  a  black  poodle  came. 

The  little  lady  in  lavender  was  probably 
her  aunt. 

I  pulled  myself  together  with  an  effort. 
"Where  to,  madam  ?"  I  asked. 

"Nowhere,  yet,"  she  answered.  "We  are 
waiting  for  my  niece." 

I  have  never  quite  understood  how  I  man 
aged  to  keep  from  flinging  myself  into  the 
tonneau  and  embracing  her,  then  and  there. 
And  the  black  poodle's  presence  in  the  tonneau 
meant  that  She  was  to  sit  on  the  front  seat 
beside  me. 

Then  the  front  door  opened,  and  a  delicious 
figure  in  a  blue  broadcloth  skirt  and  an  en 
chanting  Russian  pony-skin  jacket  floated 
down  the  steps.  From  her  smart  toque  to 
her  trim  little  boots  she  was  perfect.  What  a 
dear  morsel  of  womankind  she  was — hardly 
five  feet  two!  How  soft  and  black  her  hair! 
How  unexpected,  those  blue  eyes!  Blue  eyes 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      39 

and  black  lashes.  I  felt  like  a  gawky  young 
giant  as  I  helped  her  into  the  car. 

My  orders  were  delightfully  indefinite: 
"Out  Riverside  Drive,  perhaps,  and  twice 
through  the  Park.  It  was  such  a  beautiful 
afternoon.  And  don't  go  fast,  please;  Auntie 
is  a  trifle  nervous  about  automobiles." 

The  drive  was  a  dream.  That  afternoon  I 
learned  many  things:  Her  name  was  Marian. 
Marian  Standish — what  a  delightful  name! 
Marian  Snowden — how  infinitely  more  de 
lightful!  Auntie  was  Aunt  Elizabeth,  and  the 
black  poodle  answered  to  the  name  of  Tou- 
tou.  I  drove  so  carefully  that  Aunt  Elizabeth 
wasn't  a  bit  nervous.  Safe,  sane  and  con 
servative,  that  was  Bill  Snow  in  a  nutshell. 

We  made  the  round  of  the  Park  twice.  I 
saw  at  least  fifty  people  whom  I  knew.  But 
there  is  little  or  no  harm  in  a  passing  bow, 
especially  when  the  recipient  fails  to  acknowl 
edge  it. 

I  thought  my  time  had  come,  however, 
when,  caught  in  a  crush  of  traffic,  I  found 
myself  alongside  Mrs.  Larkin-Pryor's  victoria. 
Not  that  I  was  afraid  of  Mrs.  Larkin-Pryor. 
But  who  should  be  sitting  beside  her  but  Jimmie 
Redmond! 


40     A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

"Hullo,  Billy!"  he  bawled,  raising  his  hat, 

"How  do  you  do,  sir  ?" 

Mrs.  Larkin-Pryor  turned  and  stared,  then 
waved  a  fat  hand.  "When  are  you  coming 
to  see  me  ?"  she  called. 

"To-morrow,  ma'am,"  I  replied  hastily. 

Thank  Heaven!  The  carriage  ahead  of  me 
was  now  moving.  How  I  hated  Jimmie,  and 
how  I  loathed  Mrs.  Larkin-Pryor!  What 
would  the  girl  beside  me  think  ? 

"You  seem  to  be  very  popular,  Bill." 

How  delicious  it  sounded  to  hear  her  call 
me  Bill!  And  how  I  lied!  Ye  gods,  how  I 
did  lie! 

"Well,  you  see,  miss,"  I  explained,  "I  used 
to  work  for  that  gentleman  who  spoke  to  me, 
before  I  went  into  business  for  myself.  And 
the  lady  with  him  has  just  bought  a  new  auto 
mobile,  and  wants  me  to  teach  her  how  to 
run  it." 

"I  see,"  said  Miss  Marian  Standish. 

That  was  all  she  said,  but  what  was  it  she 
saw  ?  Did  she  see  deceit  ?  Was  my  name  Bill 
Snow — or  was  it  Mud  ? 


VII 

THE  poet  who  wrote: 
'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all, 
wasn't  such  a  dry,  old  bird  as  his  other  poems 
might  lead  one  to  believe. 

Not  that  I  admitted  for  a  moment  that  I 
had  lost — I  wouldn't  lose;  I  was  resolved  to 
marry  Miss  Marian  Standish,  whether  my 
name  was  Mud  or  not.  If  I  couldn't  win  her 
as  Bill  Snow,  I'd  woo  and  win  her  as  William 
Snowden.  And  even  in  New  York,  where 
money  is  such  a  screaming  necessity,  William 
Snowden,  Esq.,  wasn't  considered  a  bad 
match.  The  social  barometer  always  regis 
tered  fair  weather  when  he  turned  up;  mothers 
with  marriageable  daughters  beamed  at  him 
approvingly  and  invited  him  to  dinners  and 
to  the  opera,  to  their  boxes  at  the  Horse  Show. 
41 


42      A   SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

to  pink  teas,  to  all  manner  of  inane  and  unat 
tractive  entertainments. 

Oh,  yes,  William  Snowden  was  a  popular 
young  man!  But  that  didn't  help  matters  a 
bit.  The  one  important  thing  was:  What  did 
She  think  ?  If  she  thought  at  all,  it  was  prob 
ably  that  Bill  Snow  was  a  careful  driver,  that 
his  car  was  an  unusually  good  model,  and  that 
his  rate  of  two  dollars  and  a  half  an  hour  was 
ridiculously  cheap. 

To  be  a  chauffeur  in  a  million  is  an  un 
doubted  distinction;  to  be  a  chauffeur  with  a 
million  borders  on  burlesque.  Yet  I  wasn't 
conscious  of  my  absurd  position  at  the  time.  As 
I  tooted  into  my  garage,  after  returning  from 
the  threshold  of  Heaven,  No. — ,  Central  Park 
West,  I  felt  at  once  hopefully  despondent  and 
despondently  hopeful.  It  would  all  end  right. 
It  had  to  end  right,  that's  all  there  was  about  it 

"Did  ye  have  a  good  run,  sorr?"  asked 
Jerry  Spinner. 

"Splendid,  Jerry!     Splendid!" 

"Be  ye  going  out  this  evening,  sorr?" 

"I  think  not." 

"To-morrow's  me  day  off,  Mr.  Snowden. 
I  thought  I'd  better  be  reminding  ye  uv  it." 

"All    right,    Jerry,"    I    replied    carelessly, 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     43 

"just  fix  her  up  as  usual.  You  might  try  a 
voltmeter  on  that  wet  cell,  and  be  sure  and 
have  a  good  time  to-morrow." 

"Now,  about  that  new  boy  I  was  telling  ye 
about — him  that  got  a  job  here  last  week.  I 
misthrust  him,  Mr.  Snowden." 

"Nonsense,  Jerry;  you'd  mistrust  your 
own  grandmother!" 

I  dined  that  night  at  the  club,  hoping  to  kill 
two  birds  with  one  stone,  the  two  birds  I  had 
in  mind  being  a  good  dinner  and  Jimmie 
Redmond.  Although  the  good  dinner  was 
forthcoming,  Jimmie  Redmond  was  missing, 
dining  out  somewhere,  no  doubt.  Among  the 
letters  in  my  box  I  found  an  invitation  for  the 
week-end,  a  nice,  jolly  invitation  written  by 
that  treasure  among  women,  Mrs.  Tom  Stud- 
leigh.  At  the  bottom  of  the  last  page  was  a 
postscript  by  dear  old  Tom  himself.  Tom 
and  I  had  been  friends  since  our  college  days — 
good  old  Tom! — and  Mrs.  Tom  was  a  brick. 
If  I  got  beyond  my  depth  in  this  Bill  Snow 
affair,  I'd  count  on  her  to  pull  me  out.  She 
was  just  the  person  who  would  know  exactly 
what  to  do;  nowhere  was  there  a  more  skilled 
pilot  of  the  social  seas,  or  one  more  willing  to 
throw  a  life-line  to  a  sinking  friend. 


44      A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

I  decided  to  accept  the  invitation  provi 
sionally.  I  could  do  that  with  Mrs.  Tom. 
"I'll  come  if  I  can,"  I  wrote,  "but  don't  count 
on  me." 

I  hung  about  the  club  till  half-past  nine, 
hoping  that  Jimmie  would  turn  up,  for  it  was 
high  time  he  and  I  were  having  a  heart-to- 
heart  talk.  I  had  resolved  to  throw  myself 
on  his  bosom  and  appeal  to  his  sense  of 
chivalry.  That  meant,  of  course,  that  I  should 
have  to  take  him  into  my  confidence.  I  didn't 
relish  doing  that  a  little  bit,  but  the  little  beggar 
seemed  to  have  a  genius  for  appearing  on  the 
scene  at  precisely  the  wrong  time,  and  if  I 
didn't  muzzle  him  at  once  there  was  no  count 
ing  the  damage  he  might  do.  I  waited  another 
half-hour.  Still  no  Jimmie! 

At  ten  minutes  past  ten  Wallie  Stuart 
strolled  into  the  green-room  and  suggested 
we  run  over  to  the  Casino  for  the  last  act  of 
Flirty  Gerty,  with  supper  at  Sherry's  after 
ward.  I  accepted  with  alacrity,  not  that  I 
cared  for  Flirty  Gerty  or  supper  at  Sherry's, 
but  anything  was  better  than  just  hanging 
about  and  waiting. 

Flirty  Gerty  bored  me  almost  to  extinction, 
and  at  Sherry's—  -We  handed  over  our  hats 


A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP     45 

and  coats,  and  made  for  the  table  Wallie  had 
thoughtfully  engaged.  Before  I  had  taken 
ten  steps,  however,  my  eyes  fell  on  a  party  of 
four,  seated  at  a  table  on  my  right.  I  gazed 
at  them  in  utter  amazement,  then  turned  and 
fled.  For  the  four  people  were  Aunt  Elizabeth 
(Marian's  aunt,  you  know),  a  handsome- 
looking  chap  whom  I  had  never  seen  before, 
Marian  herself,  and,  sitting  next  to  her  and 
chattering  away  like  a  little  ape,  was  Jimmie 
Redmond. 

That  settled  it;  my  name  was  Mud.  In 
one  brief  and  startled  glance  I  had  witnessed 
the  demise  of  Bill  Snow. 

As  for  Wallie  Stuart,  he  never  did  learn 
what  became  of  me  that  night. 


VIII 

I  SPENT  next  day  in  my  apartment.  Of 
course  she  wouldn't  ring  up.  Jimmie  Red 
mond  had  settled  Bill  Snow's  fate  the  night 
before.  Yet  I  couldn't  help  hoping,  for  at 
heart  I  knew  Jimmie  wasn't  a  spoil-sport;  I 
was  sure  that  he  would  never,  wittingly,  pour 
water  into  my  gasoline.  Hadn't  I  got  him 
into  the  Amsterdam  Club,  the  hardest  club 
to  make  in  New  York  ?  Wasn't  I  the  best 
friend  he  had  in  the  world  ?  Besides,  it  might 
be  that  he  and  Marian  \vere  not  conscious  of 
ever  having  seen  each  other  before  last  night. 
One  always  looks  so  different  in  the  evening. 

Logically,  then,  I  had  every  reason  to  be 
optimistic.  Actually,  however,  I  became 
more  and  more  despondent. 

Then  the  telephone  bell  rang,  and  I  heard 

myself  telling  Collins,  in   a   mournful  voice, 
46 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      47 

that  I  was  out  of  town,  as  usual,  which  in 
teresting  information  was  repeated  into  the 
ear  of  Mrs.  Larkin-Pryor's  maid. 

An  hour  later  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  was 
an  egregious  imbecile  not  to  hunt  up  Jimmie 
Redmond  and  learn  my  fate  direct.  After  all, 
there  was  nothing  in  the  world  so  trying  as 
uncertainty.  I  rang  for  Collins. 

"Get  Mr.  Redmond  on  the  wire, 
please." 

Collins  tried  six  numbers  before  he  met  with 
any  success,  and  even  then  his  success  con 
sisted  in  the  very  unsatisfactory  announcement 
that  "Mr.  Redmond  had  left  early  that  morn 
ing  for  Westchester  County." 

Was  there  ever  anything  more  exasper 
ating  ?  Here  I  was  a  languishing  prisoner, 
while  Jimmie  was  foozling  and  driving  into 
bunkers  out-of-doors!  Or,  perhaps  he  was 
lifting  one  of  Wallie  Stuart's  sprung-kneed 
hunters  over  a  three-foot  fence,  in  mad  cry 
after  an  evil-smelling  anise-bag. 

At  half-past  six  I  went  for  a  walk,  intending 
to  return  in  half  an  hour,  dress,  and  go  to  the 
club  for  dinner.  It  was  delightful  out-of- 
doors;  just  the  night  for  a  run,  with  dinner  on 
a  balcony  overlooking  the  Hudson.  As  I 


48      A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

strolled  up  the  avenue,  I  half  resolved  to  tele 
phone  from  one  of  the  big  hotels  near  Fifty- 
ninth  Street,  and  have  my  car  meet  me  there, 
trusting  to  luck  to  pick  up  a  dinner-companion 
at  the  club. 

At  Fifty-ninth  Street  I  wavered  uncertainly. 
Should  I  telephone,  or  shouldn't  I  ?  An  auto 
mobile  glided  past  me,  making  toward  the 
Park.  It  was  a  stunning  big  automobile,  red 
like  mine — the  same  make  as  mine.  By 
George,  it  was  mine!  "33756  N.  Y.!"  That 
was  my  number  swinging  at  the  rear.  What 
did  it  mean  ? 

Surprise  and  uncertainty  melted  into  rage. 
I'd  teach  them  to  let  my  car  out  without  my 
knowledge!  I'd  fix  that  rascally  chauffeur! 
I'd  show  them  they  couldn't  trifle  with  William 
Snowden,  Esq.  I'd  see  to  it  that  every  owner 
of  every  car  in  the  garage  should  hear  of  this 
outrage;  I'd  ruin  their  business,  by  George! 
I'd  sue  them;  I'd  make  New  York  too  hot  to 
hold  them;  I'd— 

Hugging  the  curb,  not  two  feet  away,  was 
a  car  with  a  "To  Hire"  sign  on  it.  The  very 
thing! 

The  chauffeur  in  my  car  was  plainly  bent 
on  turning  a  dishonest  penny.  He  was  going 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      49 

somewhere  to  pick  up  a  load.  But  where 
would  he  take  them  ? 

I  jumped  into  the  automobile  so  fortui 
tously  at  hand.  "A  turn  in  the  Park,  then 
Riverside  Drive,"  I  ordered  sharply.  In  a 
moment  we  were  off. 

We  dived  into  the  Park — not  a  sign  of  my 
car  anywhere.  Down  West  Seventy-second 
Street,  round  a  corner  into  the  Drive — still  no 
sign.  I  might  miss  them  altogether  now;  I 
probably  would.  They  might  be  tooting  out 
St.  Nicholas  Avenue  for  all  I  knew.  Maybe 
that  miserable  chauffeur  was  taking  his  sweet 
heart  for  a  spin.  If  he  was,  I  could  almost 
forgive  him.  Lucky  fellow,  to  have  a  sweet 
heart  to  spin  with! 

We  turned  from  the  Drive  to  circle  past  a 
restaurant,  and  to  inspect  the  half-dozen  cars 
that  are  usually  to  be  found  there.  I  counted 
eight,  but  mine  was  not  among  them.  Then 
on  we  raced. 

It  was  a  rickety  old  car — a  rackety  old  car; 
one  wondered  how  it  managed  to  go  at  all. 
But  go  it  did;  over  the  Viaduct,  a  turn  to  the 
right,  up  a  hill,  Amsterdam  Avenue  for  a  few 
blocks,  an  abrupt  turn  to  the  left,  two  blocks 
of  Broadway,  then  into  the  beautiful  Boule- 


50     A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

vard  Lafayette.  Of  course  they  had  come  this 
way!  Who  would  smother  in  the  Park  when 
be  could  look  down  upon  the  Hudson  ? 

The  tail  lamp  of  an  automobile  twinkled 
in  the  distance. 

"Approach  that  car,"  I  ordered,  "but  do 
not  pass  it  until  I  give  the  word." 

We  gained  on  it  rapidly.  Closer  and  closer 
we  drew,  till  I  could  almost  make  out  the  num 
bers  at  the  rear.  Closer  still — they  were  my 
numbers!  It  was  my  car! 

"Follow  them,"  I  whispered  hoarsely. 

We  followed  them  for,  perhaps,  a  mile. 
Suddenly  our  quarry  made  a  dash.  Were 
they  trying  to  escape?  How  absurd  of  me! 
They  were  preparing  for  the  steep  road,  to 
take  it  on  the  high  speed. 

A  car  that  can  take  that  hill  on  the  high 
speed  is  a  corker.  Mine  could,  but  I  had 
my  doubts  as  to  whether  the  venerable  rattle 
trap  in  which  I  was  seated  could  take  it  in 
any  circumstances. 

We  managed  it  on  a  the  low  gear,  with  the 
muffler  cut  out.  Our  ascent  was  slow,  a 
series  of  gasps  and  startling  explosions. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  I  discharged  my 
driver.  "You'd  better  stay  round  here  a 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      51 

while,"  I  suggested.  "I  can  almost  guar 
antee  you  a  load  back  to  town." 

A  cafe  ahead  was  ablaze  with  lights. 
People  were  dining  on  the  porches,  people 
were  dining  inside;  there  was  a  hum  of 
voices,  an  occasional  shrill  laughter,  the  sound 
of  clicking  glass  and  popping  corks.  Avoid 
ing  the  porches,  I  followed  the  path  to  the 
stables,  where  automobiles  awaited  the  pleas 
ure  of  their  masters. 

Yes,  there  was  my  beauty! 

That  rascally  chauffeur  was  eating  his 
dinner,  with  other  rascally  chauffeurs,  in  the 
little  dining-room  off  the  kitchen.  Should 
I  confront  him  there,  and  tax  him  with  his 
dishonesty  ?  Wouldn't  it  be  better  just  to 
take  the  car  and  make  off  with  it  ?  That 
would  prolong  his  agony.  It  would  frighten 
him  to  death.  By  George,  I'd  do  it!  Only, 
how  in  the  deuce  was  I  to  do  it  without  a 
switch-plug  ? 

I  hastily  examined  the  other  cars.  Perhaps, 
some  careless  fellow  had  forgotten  to  remove 
his  switch-plug.  Would  you  believe  it  ?  One 
had! 

It  took  but  a  moment  to  install  it,  crank  my 
engine  and  slide  out  into  the  road  leading 


52      A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

to  the  rear  entrance  to  the  grounds,  the  road 
that  baby  two-cylinder  cars  and  sick  four- 
cylinders  always  travel  when  coming  to  this 
place,  thereby  avoiding  the  heart-breaking 
hill  from  the  Boulevard. 

I  had  fully  intended  to  return  the  switch- 
plug,  but Some  one  was  coming  from 

the  house.  I  glanced  over  my  shoulder.  It 
was  a  man  in  an  automobile  cap. 

I  suddenly  felt  like  a  thief. 

"Hey,  there!" 

I  paid  no  attention.  Instead,  I  shot  out 
into  the  darkness.  There  was  no  shifting  of 
speeds.  My  car  was  a  car!  I  had  started  her 
on  the  direct  drive. 

A  few  pursuing  cries — then  silence. 

Feeling  like  a  reckless  Dick  Turpin,  and 
tingling  with  excitement,  I  skimmed  along 
toward  home.  What  a  dashing  adventure! 
I  was  almost  grateful  to  the  chauffeur  for 
stealing  my  car.  No,  I  wasn't,  either.  If 
I  were  grateful  at  all,  I  should  be  grateful 
to  Jerry  Spinner;  such  a  thing  could  never 
have  happened  with  him  in  the  garage.  But 
it  was  Jerry's  day  off. 


A 


IX 


PLEASANT  night,    a    good   road, 
with  one's  gas-lamps  burning  holes 
-*-    -*-     in  the  vague  shadows  ahead — and  the 

o 

whole  world  may  go  hang.  One  doesn't  know 
what  life  is  till  one  has  motored  at  night. 

As  I  skimmed  along  toward  home  I  forgave 
everybody  everything:  Jimmie  Redmond  was 
a  prince,  the  chauffeur  who  had  stolen  my  car 
was  an  amiable  lunatic,  the  adventure  of  the 
evening  was  a  Heaven-sent  diversion. 

I  whirled  over  the  Viaduct,  down  Riverside 
Drive,  past  the  tomb  of  an  immortal  General, 
past  the  palace  of  a  mortal  Steel  Trust  mag 
nate,  round  the  corner  into  Seventy-second 
Street,  and  plump  into  the  arms  of  a  brass- 
buttoned  policeman. 

Muttering  curses,  I  jammed  both  brakes 
53 


54     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

home.  This  would  make  my  third  arrest  for 
speeding! 

Luckily,  I  had  six  one-hundred-dollar 
bonds  of  the  Franklin  Surety  Company  in  my 
pocket  for  this  very  purpose.  When  one 
motors  in  New  York  one  needs  more  than 
extra  inner  tubes,  extra  casings  and  a  well- 
stocked  tool-kit. 

Quite  meekly  I  allowed  my  burly  captor 
to  slide  into  the  seat  beside  me. 

"  I  guess  you  know  where  to  drive  to,"  he 
said. 

Alas,  I  knew  only  too  well!  I  had  visited 
the  station-house  on  West  Sixty-sixth  Street 
only  the  month  before.  Still,  I  wouldn't  sub 
mit  without  a  protest. 

"My  dear  fellow "  I  began. 

"Cut  it!"  he  commanded. 

"But  this  is  outrageous  — 

"Aw,  forget  it!"  he  sneered. 

"I  wasn't  doing  more  than  ten  miles  an 
hour,"  I  lied  glibly,  "and  you  can't  prove  that 
I  was." 

My  captor  chuckled.  "You've  got  your 
nerve  with  you,  young  feller,"  he  said.  I 
guess  you're  an  old  offender,  all  right." 

The  pity  of  it  was  that  he  had  guessed  the 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     55 

truth.  Ten  dollars'  fine  for  offense  number 
one.  Fifty  dollars'  fine  and  a  reprimand  for 
offense  number  two.  And  now  offense  num 
ber  three  was  hanging  over  my  head!  We 
made  the  rest  of  the  run  to  the  station  in 
silence. 

The  sergeant  on  duty  at  the  desk  received 
me  like  a  long-lost  brother. 

"It's  him,  all  right,"  said  my  captor. 

"It's  the  first  decent  haul  we've  made  this 
week,"  remarked  the  sergeant.  "You're  a 
lucky  dog,  Mac.  Did  he  resist  arrest  ? " 

"No,"  said  Mac,  "but  he  put  on  a  swell 
front  of  outraged  innocence." 

"They're  always  innocent,"  observed  the 
sergeant.  "  Got  anything  to  say  for  yourself, 
young  man  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  said;   "I've  got  a  lot  to  say." 

"Better  not  say  it,"  he  counseled.  "It'll 
be  used  against  you  later  if  you  do." 

"What  rot!"  I  exclaimed.  "To  hear  you 
talk  one  would  think  that  exceeding  the  speed 
limit  was  a  State's  prison  offense." 

I  hadn't  intended  a  joke,  but  both  the  ser 
geant  and  my  captor  laughed  heartily. 

"Ain't  he  the  goods,  though  ?  Ain't  he 
the  Candy  Kid?"  said  Mac. 


56     A   SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

"You  have  a  most  primitive  sense  of 
humor,"  I  responded  hotly.  "  If  it's  security 
you  want  for  my  appearance  in  court,  say  so. 
I've  had  enough  of  your  insolence." 

"He's  had  enough  of  our  insolence,"  re 
peated  Mac.  "Ain't  he  the  giddy  millionaire, 
though!" 

"Chuck  it,  Mac!"  commanded  the  ser 
geant.  "What's  your  name,  young  feller?" 

"William  Snowden,"  I  replied  angrily. 

"Where  do  you  live  ?" 

"  At  the  Luxor  Apartments,  No.  —  Madison 
Avenue." 

"Ho!  Ho!  Ho!"  laughed  Mac. 

"What's  your  occupation  ?" 

"I  haven't  any." 

"He's  a  blooming  capitalist,"  said  Mac. 

"You  be  - 

"Well,  young  feller,  I've  got  you  down  on 
the  book  twice,"  remarked  the  sergeant. 

"Twice!"  I  gasped. 

"That's  what  I  said — twice." 

"May  I  be  permitted  to  ask  on  what 
charges  ? " 

"Certainly,"  said  the  sergeant,  with  a 
malevolent  grin.  "Burglary  and  grand  lar 
ceny." 


X 


TO  be  charged  with  burglary  and  grand 
larceny,   to  have  it  entered  in  the 
police  blotter  by  a  goat  of  a  sergeant, 
together  with  my  name,  address  and  lack  of  hon 
est  occupation — it  was  too  screamingly  absurd ! 
Also    it   was    as    plain    as    day  how   it  had 
come    about:    that    rascally    chauffeur    had 
telephoned  the  police,  and  the  order  had  gone 
forth  to  arrest  the  driver  of  car  No.  33756 
N.Y. 

"Ring  up  the  restaurant,  Mac,"  said  the 
sergeant,  "and  tell  them  the  good  news." 
That  settled  it. 

Well,  there  was  no  use  trying  to  establish 
my  identity — the  chauffeur  who  had  taken 
my  car  from  the  garage  would  do  that  for  me. 
I'd  sit  by  quietly  till  he  turned  up.  Wouldn't 
he  have  a  fit  when  he  saw  what  a  scrape  he'd 
57 


58      A   SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

got  into  ?  Yes,  I'd  sit  by  quietly  and  smoke 
a  cigarette. 

"Take  that  hand  out  of  that  pocket!" 
roared  the  sergeant. 

"You  go  to  blazes!"  I  returned.  "It's 
my  pocket,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Search  him,  Mac,"  ordered  the  sergeant. 

"I'll  be  good,"  I  promised  meekly. 

"You  bet  your  life  you  will,"  said  the  ser 
geant.  "This  would  be  a  good  one  for  Rooker 
-eh,  Mac?" 

"Yes,"  agreed  Mac.  "I  guess  I'd  better 
ring  him  up." 

I  wondered  who  in  thunder  Rooker  was. 
I  was  soon  to  learn,  alas,  that  Rooker  was  city 
editor  of  the  yellowest  morning  newspaper 
published  in  New  York! 

"He'll  send  a  man  out  at  once,"  Mac 
announced. 

"If  news  is  scarce,  they'll  play  it  up  big," 
prophesied  the  sergeant. 

"Maybe  they'll  run  my  picture,"  ventured 
Mac  hopefully. 

"You're  a  lucky  dog,  Mac,"  said  the 
sergeant. 

"And  they'll  have  to  stop  throwing  it  in 
your  face  that  nothing  ever  happens  at  the 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     59 

Sixty-sixth  Street  Station,"  added  Mac  diplo 
matically. 

The  situation  had  now  resolved  itself  into  a 
race  between  Rooker's  man  and  the  chauffeur. 
If  the  chauffeur  arrived  first  I  would,  at  least, 
escape  a  personal  interview.  If  the  reporter 
arrived  first,  Heaven  help  William  Snowden! 

The  next  ten  minutes  was  the  longest  ten 
minutes  I  have  ever  experienced.  Would  that 
miserable  chauffeur  never  come  ? 

An  automobile  chugged  up  to  the  station- 
house  and  stopped  before  the  door.  I  sprang 
to  my  feet. 

"Sit  down!"  commanded  the  sergeant. 

O 

I  sat  down. 

"  See  who  it  is,  Mac,"  he  ordered. 

Mac  strode  through  the  door  and  disap 
peared. 

"I  wish  very  much  to  see  the  chauffeur  who 
claims  the  car,"  I  announced  to  the  sergeant. 

"You  can  take  it  from  me  that  you  ain't 
half  as  anxious  to  see  him  as  he  is  for  to  see 
you,"  chuckled  the  sergeant. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  I  replied. 

"We'll  see,"  said  the  sergeant. 

Just  wouldn't  we  see,  though!  I  pictured 
the  whole  scene  in  my  mind:  a  groveling 


60     A   SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

chauffeur,  my  discomfited  captor,  an  apolo 
getic  sergeant,  and  Virtue  Triumphant  in  the 
shape  of  one  William  Snowden,  Esq.  Oh, 
we'd  see,  right  enough !  There  was  Mac,  now. 
And  behind  him — not  at  all  the  person  I  had 
expected  to  see — was  the  chauffeur  who  had 
driven  me  to  the  restaurant. 

"  I  got  a  load  back,  all  right,"  he  announced, 
grinning  derisively. 

"But  where's  the  other  chauffeur?"  I 
asked. 

"Don't  worry,  he's  coming,"  said  Mac. 

"When  he  does  come  it  will  be  you  who's 
worried,"  I  replied. 

"Here  he  is  now,"  said  the  sergeant. 

I  turned  to  confront  the  poor  wretch.  It 
was  Charlie,  the  new  boy  at  the  garage,  whom 
Jerry  Spinner  had  tried  to  warn  me  against. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Snowden,"  he  said, 
touching  his  cap. 

"Do  you  know  this  man?"  asked  the 
sergeant. 

"Certainly,"  answered  Charlie.  "He's 
the  owner  of  the  car  that  was  stolen." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Mac. 

"It's  a  plant — a  deliberate  plant!"  cried 
the  sergeant. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      61 


"By  ringing  up  the  Reliance  Garage  you 
can  verify  my  statement,"  said  Charlie,  who, 
by  the  way,  wasn't  groveling  a  bit.  In  fact, 
he  was  quite  the  coolest  young  devil  I  had 
ever  had  the  misfortune  to  encounter.  "But 
where,"  he  continued,  "is  the  man  who  stole 
the  car  ?  " 

"Where  is  he  ?"  roared  the  sergeant. 

"Yes,  where  is  he  ?" 

"Why,  you've  just  been  talking  to  him,  you 
young  idiot!" 

"It  was  I  who  took  the  car,"  I  confessed. 

"Mr.  Snowden  has  a  perfect  right  to  take 
his  own  car,"  Charlie  declared. 

"I  hope  you  are  satisfied  at  last  that  I  am 
the  owner  of  the  car,"  I  said,  turning  to  the 
sergeant. 

"Idunno,"  he  replied  doubtfully. 

"If  you  care  to  see  some  engraved  cards  with 
my  name  on  them "  I  continued. 

"  How  about  them  people  outside  ? "  inter 
rupted  Mac. 

"What  people?"  demanded  the  sergeant. 

"The  parties  I  took  out  to  the  restaurant," 
Charlie  explained. 

"Bring  'em  in,"  said  the  sergeant. 

"The  old  lady  refuses  to  come,"  Mac  an- 


62      A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

nounced  a  moment  later,  "but  the  other  two 
will  be  here  in  a  minute." 

We  all  turned  expectantly,  our  eyes  on  the 
door.  What  other  miserable  people  were  to 
be  dragged  into  this  miserable  affair  ?  Who 

oo 

were  they,  and  how  had  they  happened  to  go 
riding  in  my  car  ? 

A  girl,  accompanied  by  a  nan  whom  I'd 
seen  once  before,  walked  into  the  room. 

The  sergeant  pointed  to  me.  "Do  you 
know  this  man  ? "  he  asked. 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

The  girl  stared  in  astonishment.  "Why,  it's 
Bill  Snow!"  she  said. 


II 


\ 


i 


/% 


A  girl,  accompanied  by  a  man  whom  I  had  seen  once  before. 
Walked  into  the  room. 


XI 


I  SHALL  never  forget  that  awful  moment. 
,With  my  identity  shattered  beyond  all 
hope  of  immediate  repair,  I  stared  help 
lessly  about  me,  into  the  cynical  eyes  of  the 
sergeant,  into  the  triumphant  eyes  of  Mac, 
into  the  astonished  eyes  of  Charlie,  into  the 
wondering  eyes  of  Marian  Standish,  into  the 
unsympathetic  eyes  of  her  handsome  escort. 
Alas,  poor  Bill  Snow!  The  high-tension  wires 
of  Fate  had  short-circuited  with  the  cylinders 
of  Chance  and  his  sixty-horse-power  romance 
had  come  to  a  sudden  stop  in  a  police  station . 
Could  anything  be  more  sordid,  more  morti 
fying,  more  humiliating! 

And,    while    I    was    staring    impotently, 

Rooker's  reporter  was  swooping  down  on  us 

from  the  direction  of  Park  Row.     I  sa,w  a 

front-page  story,  under  sensational  headlines, 

63 


64      A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

with  pictures  of  Marian,  Mac  and  me.  Not 
that!  No,  sir;  not  if  I  had  to  corrupt  the 
whole  police  force,  to  buy  the  front  page  of 
every  newspaper  in  New  York!  But  I  must 
warn  her.  She  must  leave  at  once.  Her 
escort  would  understand. 

"My  advice  to  you,  sir,"  I  said,  stepping  up 
to  the  only  uninterested  spectator  of  my  dis 
grace,  "is  to  cut  out  of  here  with  the  young 
lady.  There's  a  reporter  heading  this  way, 
who  may  take  it  into  his  head  to  include  her 
in  the  story  he's  after." 

"By  Jove,"  exclaimed  the  handsome  chap, 
"that's  not  bad  advice,  Marian!" 

"Just  a  minute,"  said  the  sergeant. 

"Go  at  once,"  I  begged. 

"How  about  my  bill  ?"  asked  their  chauffeur. 

"How  about  his  bill?"  asked  Marian, 
pointing  to  Charlie. 

"I'll  settle  both  bills,  and  send  you  my  ac 
count  through  the  post.  Don't  waste  a 
moment." 

"  I  want  my  money  now,"  said  the  restaurant 
chauffeur. 

I  drew  a  wallet  from  my  pocket. 

"But  I  can't  allow  you  to  do  that,"  saiJ 
Marian. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      65 

"Please  go!"  I  implored. 

"And  you  positively  identify  this  man  as 
Bill  Snow  ?"  asked  the  sergeant. 

"No,  I  don't,"  replied  Marian. 

"Of  course  she  does,"  I  said. 

"Shall  I  take  them  home,  Mr.  Snowden  ?" 
asked  Charlie. 

"Yes,  at  once,"  I  answered. 

"He  can't  go,"  said  the  sergeant. 

"The  deuce  he  can't!"  I  returned. 

"The  kid's  an  accomplice,"  said  Mac. 

"  He'll  come  back  as  soon  as  he's  taken  them 
home,"  I  promised. 

"Most  likely,"  sneered  Mac. 

"Here's  Rooker's  man  now,"  said  the  ser 
geant,  as  a  lean,  sharp-nosed  youth,  with  a 
face  like  a  fox  terrier,  bounded  into  the  room. 

"Hullo,  Bellows!"  said  Mac. 

"Hullo! "said  Bellows.  "Something  doing 
in  my  line,  eh  ?  Good-evening,  sergeant.  How 
do  you  do,  Mr.  Snowden  ?" 

I  gasped  with  surprise.  The  sergeant 
gasped  with  surprise.  Mac  gasped  with  sur 
prise. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  demanded  the 
sergeant. 

"Why,  of  course,"  answered  the  omniscient 


66      A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

Mr.  Bellows;  " everybody  in  New  York 
knows  Mr.  Snowden.  I  handled  the  story 
for  my  paper  that  time  you  bowled  over  Bishop 
Jenning's  brougham  on  the  Avenue,"  he 
added,  with  a  touch  of  professional  pride. 

"Awfully  glad  to  see  you  again,  old  chap," 
I  said,  wringing  his  hand.  "I've  got  into  no 
end  of  a  scrape,  and  you're  just  the  man  to 
help  me  out.  Charlie,  take  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Porter  home.  I'll  stay  here  and  talk  to  Mr. 
Bellows." 

Marian  eyed  me  with  indignant  surprise, 
but  her  escort  took  his  cue  like  a  veteran- 
confound  him! " 

"Come  along,  dear,"  he  said;  "Billy  is 
right;  we  might  as  well  go  home." 


XII 

NOW,  Bellows,  old  chap,"  I  began. 
"Just  a  minute,  Mr.  Snowden," 
said  Bellows,  reaching  for  his  pencil 
and  copy-paper. 

"There's  really  nothing  to  make  a  story 
about,"  I  declared.  "It's  a  trivial  case  of 
mistaken  identity,  that's  all." 

"  Mistaken  identity  ?  Why,  that's  great, 
Mr.  Snowden;  better  than  I'd  hoped  for!" 

"He  stole  his  own  car,"  interrupted  the 
sergeant. 

"And  he's  down  on  the  blotter  for  burglary 
and  grand  larceny,"  said  Mac. 

"Ripping!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bellows.  "Sim 
ply  ripping!" 

"If  you  must  write  something,  I  hope  you'll 
properly  roast  the  sergeant,"  I  said  vin 
dictively. 


68     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

"But  that  would  spoil  the  story,"  pro 
tested  Mr.  Bellows. 

"The  lady  identified  him  as  Bill  Snow," 
growled  the  sergeant. 

"Merely  a  pet  name,"  I  defended. 

"By  the  way,  who  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Por 
ter  ? "  asked  Mr.  Bellows. 

"Cousins  of  mine  from  Albany.  I  hope 
you  won't  include  them  in  your  story, 
Bellows. 

"I'll  only  mention  them,"  said  Bellows. 
"Are  they  stopping  with  you  ? " 

"They're  at  the  Holland  House,"  I  lied 
brazenly. 

"And  you  were  dining  together?" 

"No.  I  lent  them  my  car,  with  a  chauffeur, 
this  afternoon,  and  they  promised  to  show  up 
at  my  apartment  at  half-past  six  and  take  me 
to  dinner  at  this  cafe.  It  seems  that  they  went 
for  a  longer  ride  than  they  had  at  first  intended, 
for  at  quarter  to  seven  they  telephoned  that 
they  were  too  ravenously  hungry  to  wait  for 
dinner,  so  were  dining  without  me.  Naturally, 
that  made  me  furious,  so  I  hired  an  automo 
bile,  drove  to  the  cafe,  stole  my  own  car  and 
tooted  back  to  town — just  to  get  even,  you 
know.  Of  course,  Charlie,  the  chauffeur, 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     69 

missed  the  car,  and,  supposing  it  had  been 
stolen,  telephoned  the  police,  who  captured 
me  on  West  Seventy-second  Street  and  brought 
me  here." 

"It's  a  pippin  of  a  story!"  said  Bellows. 
"Hospitable  millionaire — greedy  cousins  from 
the  country — unique  revenge — police — bur 
glary — grand  larceny — with  a  grand-stand 
finish!  What  did  you  say  your  cousin's  first 
name  was  ?" 

"John,"  I  said.  "Between  you  and  me, 
Bellows,  I've  never  liked  him." 

"The  lady  identified  him,"  persisted  the 
sergeant. 

"Yes,"  said  Bellows.  "How  about  the 
Bill  Snow  part,  Mr.  Snowden  ?" 

"I  hope  you'll  leave  that  part  out  of  your 
story,  Bellows.  I'm  er — er — rather  fond  of 
the  lady,  don't  you  know,  and  - 

"I  see,"  said  the  astute  Mr.  Bellows.  "You 
can  rely  on  my  handling  the  lady  with  the 
greatest  delicacy,  Mr.  Snowden.  I  say,  Mac, 
you  haven't  put  any  of  the  other  fellows  on 
to  this  story,  have  you  ? " 

"Not  on  your  life,"  said  Mac. 

"If  it's  a  beat  for  me,  it's  a  box  of  cigars 
apiece  for  you  and  the  sergeant." 


;o     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

"I'll  multiply  that  by  ten,  with  a  hundred 
boxes  for  yourself,  Bellows,  if  you  don't  print 
the  story  at  all,"  I  promised. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that,"  said  Bellows; 
"it  wouldn't  be  honorable!  A  man  can't 
throw  down  his  paper,  you  know." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  I  replied  dismally.  "  May 
be  I  could  fix  it  up  with  your  managing  edi 
tor.  Who  is  managing  editor  of  your  paper 
now,  Bellows  ? " 

"Jack  Halliday,"  said  Bellows. 

"Halliday!"  I  groaned. 

"Know  him?" 

"Rather!  You've  noticed  that  broken 
nose  of  his  ? " 

"Sure,  I  have." 

"Well,  I  broke  it  for  him,"  I  confessed. 

"You  don't  say  so!"  said  the  surprised 
Mr.  Bellows. 

"And  I  had  him  kicked  out  of  the  Lions' 
Club,"  I  continued. 

Bellows  looked  at  me  admiringly;  some 
long-held  grudge  against  his  managing  editor 
evidently  rankled  in  his  mind.  "I  can't  kill 
the  story,  Mr.  Snowden — I  can't,  honestly; 
but,  if  you  don't  mind,  I'd  like  to  shake 
hands  with  you,"  he  said. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     71 

We  shook  hands  solemnly. 

"I'd  like  to  shake  hands,  too,"  said  the 
sergeant,  edging  toward  us. 

"Same  here/'  said  Mac. 

"Halliday  tried  to  break  me  last  winter," 
continued  the  sergeant. 

"Three  months  in  Brooklyn  is  what  he 
handed  me,"  said  Mac. 

"  If  it  wasn't  for  Bellows  and  Rooker,  we'd 
hold  out  on  him  every  time,"  declared  the 
sergeant. 

"  Bet  yer  life  we  would,"  said  Mac. 

We  shook  hands  almost  affectionately. 

"Every  man  must  do  his  duty  as  he  sees 
it,"  I  remarked  magnanimously. 

"That's  right,"  agreed  the  trio. 

"I  think  I  hear  your  automobile  outside," 
Mac  announced. 

"Good-night,  boys,"  I  said.  "I'll  give 
you  a  lift  as  far  as  Times  Square  if  you  like, 
Bellows." 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Snowden,"  said  the 
sergeant.  "You  can  count  on  me  the  next 
time  you're  run  in." 

Mac  accompanied  me  to  the  curb.  "Say, 
Mr.  Snowden,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "if 
you  ever  feel  like  hitting  her  up  on  Riverside 


72      A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

Drive,  just  go  to  it.  I'll  fix  it  up  with  the 
boys." 

"That's  very  kind  of  you,  Mac,"  I  mur 
mured. 

"No,"  said  Mac,  "that  ain't  kindness— it's 
justice." 


XIII 

"1C  "IT  TITH  Charlie  at  the  wheel,  we  made 
\/V  for  the  Circle,  then  down  Broadway. 
Nobody  spoke  a  word.  Bellows, 
no  doubt,  was  thinking  of  the  story  he  was  to 
write,  and  Charlie,  intent  on  an  ever-present 
problem,  was  dodging  cabs  and  shaving  sur 
face  cars.  As  for  myself,  the  events  of  the  even 
ing  danced  dizzily,  a  mad  phantasmagoria, 
before  my  eyes:  I  was  arrested  for  burglary, 
Marian  was  beside  me  in  the  police  station, 
looking  both  sorry  and  indignant,  while  over 
and  over  again  the  sergeant  repeated:  "She 
identified  him  as  Bill  Snow.  The  lady  called 
him  Bill  Snow." 

Bellows  left  us  in  the  glaring  light  of  Times 
Square,  diving  into  the  Subway  to  catch  a 
local  for  Grand  Central,  and  from  there  an 
express  to  Park  Row. 
73 


74     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

Times  Square!  The  old  name  was  good 
enough  for  me.  What  were  we  coming  to, 
anyway  ?  It  used  to  be  Longacre  Square. 

It  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  I  was 
hungry.  By  George,  here  it  was  ten  o'clock, 
and  I  hadn't  dined  yet! 

The  lights  of  a  famous  restaurant  beckoned 
to  me.  Its  patrons  were  all  at  the  theatre, 
and  it  didn't  scruple  to  turn  an  honest  penny 
during  their  absence. 

A  moment  later  we  drew  up  in  front  of  a 
well-known  chop-house.  "Come  in  and 
jhare  a  steak  with  me,  Charlie,"  I  said. 

Once  inside,  I  ordered  a  large  porterhouse. 

It  takes  a  pair  of  knaves  to  open  a  jack 
pot,  and  a  parson  and  a  prayer  to  open  the 
Senate.  But  the  proper  opener  for  a  peace 
conference  is  a  large  porterhouse  steak. 

My  hunger  satisfied,  I  was  no  longer  in 
the  mood  to  shake  my  fist  at  the  world. 

"Now,  lad,"  I  said,  "tell  me  all  about  it." 

"About  my  taking  out  your  car  this  even 
ing  ?" 

"Yes,  Charlie." 

"Well,  sir,  a  man  rang  up  the  garage,  about 
half-past   six,   and   said   he  was  your   man 
Collins,  I  think  he  called  himself." 


i£e  apologizing  to  him,  and  I  did  so — with  a  twenty- dollar  bill. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     75 

"Go  on." 

"And  he  told  me  you  wanted  your  car  sent 
around  to  Number  —  Central  Park  West.  I 
asked  Sam  if  it  was  all  right  (I  haven't  been 
with  the  Reliance  people  very  long,  you 
know),  and  Sam  told  me  to  go  ahead  and  take 
the  car  to  the  address  your  man  had  given 
me.  When  I  got  there  I  rang  the  bell,  ex 
pecting  to  leave  [the  car  and  cut  back  to  the 
garage,  but  the  young  lady  asked  me  to  drive 
for  her,  so  I  did.  That's  all,  Mr.  Snowden." 

"Did  she — er — seem  surprised  to  see  you, 
Charlie  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  think  she  did." 

And  this  was  the  lad  whom  Jerry  Spinner 
had  mistrusted,  whom  I  myself  had  cursed 
for  a  rogue  and  a  rascal!  I  felt  like  apologiz 
ing  to  him,  and  I  did  so — with  a  twenty- 
dollar  bill. 

"It  has  been  rather  an  unusual  night  for 
us  both,  Charlie." 

"It  has,  indeed,  sir,"  he  replied  with  a 
satisfied  smile. 

I  now  burned  to  get  home  and  question 
Collins.  Not  that  I  needed  to  question  him, 
for  I  thought  I  understood  exactly  what  had 


76      A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

happened:  Marian  must  have  telephoned, 
not  long  after  I  had  started  for  my  walk,  and 
when  she  had  asked  for  Bill  Snow,  Collins, 
realizing  how  important  it  was,  had  promptly 
thrown  himself  into  the  breach. 

No,  Bill  Snow  wasn't  in.  Was  there  any 
thing  he  could  do  ? 

Yes.  She  wanted  the  automobile  at  a  quar 
ter  to  seven.  Could  she  have  it  ? 

"Certainly, miss.    Where  shall  I  send  it?" 
"Number  -  -  Central  Park  West,  please." 
"Thank  you,  miss.     Good-by." 
Where  I  had  been  such  an  ass  was  to  believe 
that  Marian  couldn't  possibly  ring  up  again. 
But  hadn't  I  seen  her  with  my  two  eyes,  talk 
ing  to  Jimmie  Redmond  ? 

It  seemed  that  I  had  misjudged  Jimmie, 
also.  He  had  kept  his  own  counsel — good 
old  Jimmie!  He  \vas  a  dear,  discreet  fellow, 
and  I  loved  him. 

Of  course,  Collins  had  set  out  in  search  of 
me  as  soon  as  he'd  hung  up  the  receiver.  Not 
rinding  me,  he  had  made  good  by  ordering  the 
car  sent  around. 

Well,  there  would  be  no  more  Bill  Snow 
excitement,  that  was  certain.  His  name  was 
Mud  now,  forever  and  ever. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP      77 

Collins'  story  coincided  exactly  with  my 
theory  as  to  what  had  happened. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  do  wrong,  sir,"  he  said, 
in  conclusion. 

"I'm  sure  you  acted  most  intelligently, 
Collins,"  I  replied. 

"I  made  my  -mistake  in  going  down  the 
Avenue,  instead  of  up,"  he  continued.  "You 
see,  sir,  I  thought  you  would  walk  toward  your 
club." 

"And  I  made  my  mistake  in  going  up  the 
Avenue,  instead  of  down,"  I  said.  "I've 
had  a  rather  exciting  evening,  Collins.  Among 
other  things,  I've  been  arrested  for  burglary 
and  grand  larceny." 

"My  word!"  gasped  Collins. 

"  By  the  way,  I'd  like  to  have  a  copy  of  the 
Dispatch  with  my  coffee  to-morrow  morning." 

"Anything  else,  sir  ?" 

"No,  Collins.     Good-night." 

"Good-night,  sir.  I'm  very  sorry  things 
went  wrong,  sir." 

I  paced  up  and  down  my  sitting-room  for 
some  time  before  retiring.  What  in  thunder 
would  that  story  in  the  Dispatch  be  like  ? 
Why  in  thunder  did  I  have  to  go  and  get  my 
self  into  such  a  bally  mess  ?  And  who  in 


78      A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

thunder  was  that  good-looking  chap  who  had 
gone  riding  with  Marian  in  my  car  ?  After 
all,  that  was  the  question  that  worried  me 
most. 

"Come  along,  dear;  Billy  is  right.  We 
might  as  well  go  home."  Those  were  his 
exact  words. 

"Dear!" 


XIV 

I  AWOKE    next    morning  with    a    sense 
of  impending   unpleasantness.      After 
a  yawn  or  two,  I  remembered  what 
the  day  held  for  me. 

If  Bellows  had  made  a  clean  beat  of  it 
for  his  paper  I  needn't  worry  till  the  after 
noon  papers  were  on  the  street,  for  nobody 
read  the  Dispatch — that  is,  nobody  west  of 
Madison  Avenue. 

Of  course,  my  cousin  John  Porter,  from 
Albany,  might  be  a  regular  subscriber  (he 
looked  quite  capable  of  it),  but  none  of  my 
friends  was,  thank  Heaven!  And  even  Cousin 
John  would  have  the  decency  not  to  send  a 
marked  copy  of  the  Dispatch  to  Marian. 

But,  perhaps,   some  other  enterprising  re 
porter  had  stumbled  on  the  story.     What  an 
ass  I'd  been  not  to  tell  Collins  to  buy  all  the 
79 


8o     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

morning  papers!  I'd  do  so  at  once,  and  he 
could  run  out  and  get  them  while  I  was  in 
my  bath. 

When  Collins  returned  I  was  dressed  in 
an  old  brown  suit — the  one  I  had  worn  the 
day  I  had  taken  Marian  and  Tou-tou  and 
Aunt  Elizabeth  for  a  ride — the  one  with  the 
dollar  sewed  safe  in  the  waistcoat  pocket.  If 
things  got  too  hot  for  me,  I'd  hop  into  my  car 
and  make  a  dash  for  Long  Island,  by  George! 

With  my  coffee  on  the  table  in  front  of  me, 
the  Dispatch  at  my  elbow,  I  ordered  Collins 
to  glance  through  the  papers  he  had  just 
bought,  and,  if  he  saw  anything  about  my 
being  arrested,  to  mark  it  and  lay  it  aside  for 
me.  Then  I  opened  the  Dispatch. 

It  wouldn't  be  on  the  front  page,  of  course. 
By  Jove,  it  was,  though!  Almost  a  column 
of  it,  sandwiched  in  between  The  Latest 
Armenian  Atrocities  and  the  Unprecedented 
Flurry  in  Chewing  Gum,  Preferred.  Oh, 
it  was  there,  safe  enough! 

LATEST   ESCAPADE  OF   MILLIONAIRE  SNOWDEN 

MOTOR-MAD    MEMBER    OF    THE    EXCLUSIVE    AMSTERDAM    CLUB    STEAL* 
AUTOMOBILE 

Is   ARRESTED   FOR  BURGLARY 

SNOWDBN'S  DEFENSE  :  "  COUSINS  WERE  ORKEDY  ;  TUB 
AUTOMOBILE  WAS  MINK  " 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     81 

There  followed  a  hectic  version  of  my  last 
night's  adventure,  in  which  "  William  Snow- 
den,  member  of  New  Tork's  most  exclusive 
clubs,  and  sole  heir  of  the  late  Commodore 
Snowden,  of  the  Knickerbocker  Yacht  Club," 
was  held  up  as  a  horrible  example  of  the  un 
employed  rich,  while  his  new  found  cousin, 
Mr.  John  Porter,  of  Albany,  was  painted  as 
a  gluttonous  gourmand  with  a  singularly 
beautiful  young  wife.  And  that  was  what 
Bellows  called  "handling  the  lady  with  the 
greatest  delicacy!" 

Wouldn't  the  editor  of  the  Dispatch  have 
a  fit,  though,  when  he  discovered  that  there 
were  no  such  persons  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John 
Porter  stopping  at  the  Holland  House  ? 
Wouldn't  the  afternoon  papers  make  my  life 
miserable  for  me  ?  Wouldn't  Bellows  rage 
when  he  learned  that  I  had  deceived  him— 
that  I  had  no  cousins  ?  And  wouldn't  the 
other  morning  papers  (by  this  time  Collins  had 
been  through  the  lot  and  had  found  no  men 
tion  of  my  name)  sneer  at  the  Dispatch  under 
such  likely  caption  as  this: 

REPORTER   ON   THE   DISPATCH   IS   HANDED  GOLD 

BRICK   BY   MOTOR-MANIAC 

Our  Albany  Correspondent  wires: 

"SNOWDEN'S  COUSINS   DO   NOT   EXIST" 


82      A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

And  wouldn't  they  all  get  busy  and  print 
copies  of  my  uncle's,  the  Commodore's  will, 
and  photographs  of  my  apartment  house  ? 
And  wouldn't  they  turn  New  York  upside 
down  in  search  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Porter  ? 
Just  wouldn't  they  ? 

By  Jove,  I'd  better  get  busy  myself !  I'd 
ring  up  the  garage  and  have  Charlie  bring 
the  car  over  at  eleven,  and  at  the  same  time 
warn  him  to  keep  his  mouth  shut  if  any 
reporters  turned  up.  Then  I'd  get  the  club 
on  the  wire  and  order  two  boxes  of  their 
best  cigars  [sent  to  the  Sixty-sixth  Street 
police  station,  one  for  "the  sergeant 'on 
duty  at  the  time  of  Mr.  Snowden's  arrest" 
(I  didn't  know  his  name)  and  the  other  for 
"Mac,  with  Mr.  Snowden's  compliments." 
Then  I'd  ring  up  Jimmie  Redmond.  Then 
I'd- 

I  quite  forgot  the  fourth  item  on  my  mental 
list,  for  the  telephone  began  ringing,  and  it 
rang,  and  it  rang,  and  it  rang. 

"Would  Mr.  Snowden  see  a  representative 
of  the  Evening  World  ? " 

"No." 

"Would  Mr.  Snowden  see  a  representative 
of  the  Telegram  ? " 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      83 


"No!" 

"Would  Mr.  Snowden  see  a  representative 
of  the  Evening  Journal  ? " 

"No!!" 

"Would  Mr.  Snowden  see  a  representative 
of  the  Mail  and  Express  ? " 

"No!!!" 

"He  might  as  well,  for  they'd  print  the  story 
anyway." 

"Print  it  and  be !" 

I  managed  to  get  in  my  telephone  call 
to  the  garage,  somehow.  I  asked  for 
Charlie. 

(Sharlie  wasn't  about. 

Where  was  Charlie  ? 

He  wasn't  working  there  any  longer. 

The  deuce  he  wasn't!    Had  he  quit? 

No.     He'd  been  discharged. 

Been  discharged  ? 

Yes.     Who  was  this,  please  ? 

This  was  Mr.  Snowden. 

Oh!  It  was  Mr.  Snowden!  "After  reading 
the  Dispatch  this  morning,  Mr.  Snowden,  I 
concluded  that  I  didn't  need  Charlie  any 
longer." 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  discharged 
him  on  my  account  ? " 


84     A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

"Certainly,  sir.  The  young  scoundrel  was 
plainly  responsible  for  your  arrest." 

By  this  time  I  was  beside  myself.  "Why, 
you  mountain  of  imbecility!"  I  roared, 
"Charlie's  the  best  driver  you've  got!  If  you 
don't  take  him  back  at  once — at  once,  mind— 
I'll  build  a  garage  next  to  yours,  and  hire  him 
to  take  charge  of  it!" 

"I'll  send  for  him  right  away,  Mr.  Snow- 
den." 

"You'd  better,"  I  said.  "I  want  my  car 
this  morning,  and  I  want  Charlie  to  bring  it 
to  me.  If  he  isn't  here  by  eleven,  I'm  done 
with  your  garage,  and  done  with  you.  Do 
you  understand  ? " 

I  hung  up  the  receiver,  only  to  take  it  down 
again. 

"Could  Miss  Dobbins,  of  the  Herald,  see 
Mr.  Snowden  in  his  apartment  at  two  ? " 

"Certainly  not!  " 

"Atone,  then?" 

"No.  Miss  Dobbins  couldn't  see  Mr. 
Snowden  at  all." 

Then  Collins  came  into  the  room.  "You 
know  those  reporters,  Mr.  Snowden  ?" 

"What  reporters,  Collins?" 
'The  ones  that  have  been  telephoning  to 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP      85 

you  all  morning.  Well,  sir,  I've  just  found 
it  out  from  one  of  the  hall-boys:  they're  all 
lined  up  on  the  front  steps,  waiting  for  you  to 
come  down/ 


XV 

I  HEARD  Collins'  interesting  announce 
ment  with  indifference.  No  doubt 
half  the  reporters  waiting  for  me  below 
were  armed  with  cameras.  Well,  what  of  it  ? 
I  only  hoped  that  all  the  reporters  in  New 
York  were  on  my  trail,  for  the  one  thought 
that  bothered  me  now  was 'that  they  might 
find  out  who  Mrs.  John  Porter  really  was. 
Perhaps,  I  ought  to  telephone  to  Marian  and 
warn  here  of  her  danger.  Reporters  were 
such  devilishly  enterprising  people;  they 
were  almost  sure  to  find  her,  sooner  or  later. 
But,  maybe,  the  telephone  wasn't  in  her 
name. 

There  were  at  least  thirty  Standishes  in  the 
telephone-book — Martha,  Michael,  Millicent 
— but  no  Marian. 

What  a  fool  I'd  been  not  to  look  at  the 
86 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     87 

street  numbers!  Here  it  was  now:  "561 
Riverside — Standish,  Elizabeth."  That  was 
Aunt  Elizabeth,  of  course. 

As  I  took  down  the  receiver  I  felt  as  I  im 
agine  a  soldier  might  when  about  to  be  court- 
martialed  for  a  grave  offense.  "Is  this  561 
Riverside?"  I  asked  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"Yes." 

"  Is  Miss  Marian  Standish  in  ?" 

"Who  is  this,  please?" 

"This  is  Mr.  Snowden." 

"  Miss  Standish  is  out  of  town,  Mr.  Snow- 
den.  Is  there  any  message?" 

"Er— no,"  I  faltered. 

A  click  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  told  me 
that  the  person  to  whom  I  had  been  talking 
had  hung  up.  And  to  whom  had  I  been  talk 
ing  ?  Was  it  Marian,  herself  ?  Was  it  Aunt 
Elizabeth  ?  Or  was  it  a  maid  ?  And,  most 
important  of  all,  was  Marian  really  out  of 
town,  or  was  she  only  out  of  town  to  Mr. 
William  Snowden  ? 

I  felt  snubbed,  sat  upon,  distinctly  unhappy. 
Of  course,  she  wasn't  out  of  town.  Well,  I'd 
done  my  best  to  warn  her,  and  very  possibly 
she  was  out  of  town,  after  all. 

The  next  thing  was  to  locate  Jimmie  Red- 


88      A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

mond.  I  simply  had  to  see  Jimmie.  I'd 
make  him  go  to  Long  Island  with  me,  by 
George!  He  was  a  loyal  little  devil;  he'd  see 
me  through  this  affair,  and  he'd  fix  it  up  for 
me  to  meet  Marian,  too.  Now  that  Bill  Snow 
was  dead,  I'd  have  to  pin  all  my  hopes  on 
Jimmie.  How  in  blazes  had  he  managed  to 
meet  Marian,  anyway  ? 

Alas,  for  my  hopes!  Although  I  tried 
every  number  I  could  think  of,  Jimmie  was 
not  to  be  found. 

At  two  minutes  to  eleven  Collins  helped 
me  into  a  long  dust-coat;  I  donned  cap  and 
goggles.  Now  I  was  prepared  to  meet  a 
battery  of  cameras,  a  regiment  of  reporters. 
It  is  comforting  to  know,  in  this  prying  world, 
that  one  is  still  permitted  the  disguise  of 
goggles. 

The  tooting  of  a  horn  on  the  street  below, 
a  hasty  glance  from  a  window,  and  I  knew 
that  my  car  had  arrived.  Now  for  it! 

As  I  descended  in  the  elevator  I  debated 
as  to  what  I  should  do. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Snowden,"  chorused 
the  reporters,  as  I  stepped  into  view. 

"Good-morning,  boys,"  I  said,  nodding 
pleasantly. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP      89 

"How  about  that  story  in  the  Dispatch 
this  morning,  Mr.  Snowden?" 

"It's  substantially  correct,"  I  affirmed. 

"Not  the  Holland  House  part?"  said  one. 

"No,"  I  admitted;  "my  cousins  are  not 
stopping  at  the  Holland  House." 

"  Get  a  picture  of  him  in  his  chug  wagon, 
Harry!" 

"Snap  him  on  the  steps!" 

These  orders,  issued  to  camera-carrying 
aides-de-camp  by  their  respective  generals, 
were  promptly  executed. 

"Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Snowden.  Was  the 
gentleman  who  appeared  at  the  station  really 
your  cousin  ?" 

"He  certainly  was." 

"And  was  the  lady  his  wife  ?" 

This  question  was  too  much  for  me.  "Cut 
out  of  here,  quick,  Charlie,"  I  growled.  Then, 
as  the  car  swung  away  from  the  curb,  I 
turned  and  answered  my  tormentor. 

"No, ,"I  said;  "she  isn't  his  wife,  and, 

what's  more,  she  never  will  be!" 


XVI 

WHERE  to,  sir?"  asked  Charlie,  as 
we  spun  around  a  corner. 
"Oh,  anywhere!"  I  said,  with 
the  relieved  sigh  of  a  prisoner  just  escaped 
from  a  hostile  band  of  Indians.  Not  that  a 
few  reporters  more  or  less  could  make  any  dif 
ference — now.  It  wasn't  to  escape  reporters 
that  I  was  rushing  off  to  Long  Island;  it 
was  to  escape  my  friends.  I'd  probably  put 
up  at  one  of  the  smaller  country  clubs  on  Long 
Island,  and  from  there  I'd  burn  the  wires 
with  messages  till  Jimmie  Redmond  turned 
up.  There  was  no  use  in  taking  Charlie  along 
with  me,  though;  I'd  drop  him  at  the  next 
corner. 

Charlie  took  leave  of  me  with  many  ex 
pressions  of  gratitude.    "I'm  back  on  the  job 
again,  thanks  to  you,  Mr.  Snowden,"  he  said 
90 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     91 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  Charlie!  It  was 
monstrous  of  Kelly  to  discharge  you." 

"I  only  hope  he  will  let  me  stay." 

"He'd  better,"  I  replied.  "By  the  way, 
if  those  confounded  reporters  show  up  at 
the  garage,  you  don't  know  anything  about 
last  night." 

I  now  took  the  wheel,  directing  my  course 
toward  the  East  Side. 

When  I  say  that  the  Manhattan  end  of 
the  Williamsburg  Bridge  is  the  hardest 
thing  to  find  in  New  York,  believe  me,  I  do 
not  exaggerate.  It  was  a  quarter  to  twelve 
when  at  last  I  succeeded  in  reaching  it. 

Once  there,  I  handed  the  ticket,  purchased 
with  a  dime  I  had  discovered  in  a  pocket 
of  my  dust-coat,  to  the  man  whose  duty  it  is 
to  collect  this  questionable  tax.  That  accom 
plished,  I  proceeded  sedately  on  my  way,  a 
flaming  contrast  to  the  shiny-black  hearse 
now  acting  as  my  pacemaker. 

Below  me  smart  Sound  steamers,  clumsy 
excursion  boats  and  panting  tugs  whistled 
insolently  at  one  another.  In  front  of  me 
loomed  Brooklyn,  its  shore-line  a  tangle  of 
rigging,  masts  and  spars,  its  tall  factory 
chimneys  fouling  the  air  with  smoke  and 


92     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

punctuating  the  broken  sky-line  like  huge 
exclamation  points.  In  the  middle  distance 
an  occasional  church  spire  pointed  Heaven 
ward;  for  Brooklyn,  be  it  known,  is  the 
champion  church  city  of  the  United  States. 

I  have  often  wondered  if  that  accounts 
for  the  execrable  paving  of  its  streets  along 
the  water-front;  if  the  good  intentions,  fos 
tered  by  the  churches,  are  in  some  way  respon 
sible  for — say,  Jackson  Avenue. 

But  surely  not.  The  man  who  paved 
Jackson  Avenue  was,  as  every  automobile 
owner  knows,  inspired  by  the  Evil  One. 

A  happier  lot  than  Jackson  Avenue  was 
awaiting  me,  however.  Once  off  of  the 
bridge,  I  dodged  past  the  hearse,  which 
most  probably  had  inspired  these  melan 
choly  thoughts,  and,  after  some  zigzagging 
in  and  out  and  around  corners,  emerged  into 
Bedford  Avenue. 

Forty  minutes  later  I  was  tempting  the 
police  on  the  Jericho  Pike. 


XVII 

AS  I  spun  along  the  Jericho  Pike,  I 
thought  of  the  first  time  I  had  seen 
Marian,  at  the  corner  of  Thirty- 
fourth  Street  and  Lexington  Avenue.  What 
a  strange  place  for  one's  romance  to  be 
gin;  in  front  of  a  drug  store,  too!  Stranger 
still  for  one's  romance  to  end  in  the  Sixty- 
sixth  Street  police  station.  It  sounded  un 
commonly  sordid.  But  it  was  true,  all  except 
the  ending  part.  My  romance  hadn't  ended. 
No,  sir;  it  had  only  just  begun.  The  next 
time  I  saw  Marian  (Jimmie  Redmond  must 
manage  that  part)  it  would  be  in  somebody's 
drawing-room,  where  we  could  talk  to  each 
other  like  Christians,  where  I  could  explain 
away  the  fiction  of  Bill  Snow  (poor  Bill  Snow!) 
and  appear  in  my  true  character — a  devoted 
and  adoring  William  Snowden. 
93 


94      A   SIX-CYLINDER   COURTSHIP 

She  might  snub  me  unmercifully  at  first; 
she  probably  would,  but  she'd  have  to  give  in 
sooner  or  later;  I  couldn't  bear,  I  wouldn't 
bear,  her  not  loving  me.  She  simply  had  to 
love  me.  Here  it  was  the  fifth  of  May.  If 
we  could  only  be  married  in  June,  that  would 
be  perfect.  We'd  go  to  the  St.  Lawrence,  of 
course;  we'd  make  the  trip  in  the  very  car  I 
was  driving;  we'd  spend  the  summer  on  my 
island — the  nicest  island  in  the  whole  "Thou 
sand,"  by  George! — and  we'd  invite  Aunt 
Elizabeth,  and  Tou-tou,  the  black  poodle, 
to  spend  September  with  us. 

So  I  dreamed  my  dreams  while  the  speedom 
eter  ticked  off  the  miles. 

It  wasn't  till  I  had  reached  Krug's  Corner 
that  I  realized  I  was  hungry.  As  I  was  head 
ing  for  no  place  in  particular,  I  might  as  well 
stop  there  for  luncheon.  Krug's  Corner! 
That's  where  Jimmie  Redmond  and  I  had 
had  that  delicious  cup  of  coffee,  the  morning 
of  the  Vanderbilt  Cup  Race.  Mighty  early 
in  the  morning  it  was,  too,  long  before  sunup. 
I'd  try  a  pot  of  their  coffee  now.  Awful  dissi 
pation,  to  drink  coffee  at  noon;  but  why 
shouldn't  I  dissipate  ?  Lots  of  fellows,  in  my 
place,  would  have  started  drowning  their 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     95 

sorrows  in  champagne,  right  after  breakfast. 
Still,  sorrows,  as  a  rule,  didn't  drown  easily; 
they  have  a  horrid  way  of  bubbling  to  the  sur 
face  anJ  leering  at  a  fellow  over  the  rim  of 
his  glass.  Besides,  Bill  Snow  was  safe,  sane 

O  *  * 

and  conservative  on  the  drink  question.  No, 
I'd  order  coffee,  and  a  broiled  squab,  and  a 
nice  salad  that  I'd  dress  myself. 

I  ran  my  car  into  one  of  Krug's  sheds,  and 
with  the  switch-plug  safe  in  my  pocket  (the 
switch-plug  I  had  stolen  at  The  Abbey,  by 
the  way)  I  entered  Krug's  dining-room  and 
seated  myself  at  one  of  Krug's  tables.  A 
Krug  waiter  glided  in  with  a  Krug  menu  in 
his  hand,  and  took  my  order.  I  then  dived 
into  my  pocket  for  my  cigar-case.  It  wasn't 
there.  It  wasn't  in  any  of  my  pockets.  I'd 
come  off  without  it. 

A  sickening  presentiment  now  crept  over 
me  that,  in  the  unprecedented  excitement  of 
the  morning,  Collins  had  failed  to  transfer  any 
of  my  belongings  from  the  pockets  of  the 
clothes  I  had  worn  the  previous  evening. 
Such,  alas  proved  to  be  the  case!  My  wallet 
was  missing,  my  keys  were  missing,  my  check 
book  was  missing,  and,  worst  of  ail,  I  hadn't 
a  single,  solitary  sou.  Of  my  valuables,  only 


96     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

my  watch  remained;  that  being  the  one  article 
I  was  in  the  habit  of  looking  after  myself. 

How  in  thunder  had  I  got  across  the  Will- 
iamsburg  Bridge  ?  How  had  I  managed  to 
dig  up  that  dime  ?  I  had  found  it  in  the  pocket 
of  my  dust-coat,  of  course.  Cursing  Collins 
for  an  addlepated  imbecile,  I  now  turned  to 
my  dust-coat  as  a  last  resort. 

There  were  three  pockets:  two  large  ones 
and  a  small  one.  Pocket  number  one  held 
a  box  of  matches  and  a  cotterpin;  pocket 
number  two  held  a  pair  of  goggles  and  a  silk 
handkerchief;  pocket  number  three  held— 
certainly  there  was  something  in  it!  A  nickel, 
a  penny,  a  second  penny,  and — that  was 
all. 

Seven  cents!  Seven  miserable,  measly 
cents!  Not  enough  to  pay  for  a  telephone 
message  to  Manhattan.  Not  even  enough 
to  take  me  across  the  Bridge.  I'd  have  to 
run  back  to  Brooklyn  and  pawn  something; 
my  watch  ought  to  be  good  for  fifty  at  the 
very  least,  and,  if  worst  came  to  worst,  there 
were  gas-lamps.  I  suddenly  remembered  the 
dollar  sewed  tight  in  my  waistcoat  pocket — 
the  dollar  I  couldn't  spend — Marian's  dollar. 
It  was  too  utterly  absurd! 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP     97 

I  beckoned  to  my  waiter  who  was  hovering 
in  the  distance.  "I  sha'n't  want  anything  to 
eat,"  I  said. 

"But,  sir,  it's  already  ordered." 

"Cancel  the  order,  then." 

"Fm  afraid  it's  too  late,  sir." 

"Look  here,"  I  said,  "I've  come  off  with 
out  any  money." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  sir!  I'm  sure  if  you'd 
speak  to  the  proprietor  — 

"I  don't  feel  like  explaining  things  to 
proprietors,"  I  demurred. 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  me  bold,  sir,  but 
I'd  be  very  glad  to  accommodate  you  myself." 

I  was,  however,  in  no  mood  to  accept  favors 
from  anybody.  "While  I  appreciate  your 
offer,  and  am  no  end  obliged,  I  must  insist 
on  your  canceling  the  order  if  possible," 
I  said. 

He  returned  from  the  kitchen,  a  moment 
later,  with  success  written  on  his  face.  "It's 
all  right,  sir,"  he  assured  me. 

"You've  been  uncommonly  decent  about 
it,"  I  said,  "and  I  sha'n't  forget  it." 

"Oh,  that  was  nothing!"  he  protested. 
"We  all  has  our  ups  and  downs,  sir." 

He  helped  me  into  my  dust-coat  and  bowed 


98     A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

me  to  the  door,  did  this  prince  of  waiters,  and 
as  I  walked  toward  the  shed  that  sheltered 
my  car,  I  felt  more  at  peace  with  the  world 
than  I  had  for  some  time.  To  be  sure,  I  was 
still  hungry,  but  the  memory  of  that  unex 
pected  kindness  was  worth  a  dozen  luncheons. 
One  day  I'd  return  to  Krug's  Corner  with  a 
pocketful  of  money,  and  show  that  waiter  I 
appreciated  what  he'd  done  for  me,  by 
George ! 


XVIII 

A  S  I  backed  out  from  Krug's  shed 
/-\  •  into  the  Jericho  Pike,  I  wondered 
•*•  -*-  what  I  should  do  next.  The  thought 
of  returning  to  Brooklyn  was  distasteful  to  a 
degree.  Let  me  see,  I  could  run  over  to  Hemp- 
stead,  or,  in  the  opposite  direction,  to  Port 

Washington,  or  I  could  But  what  a 

goose  I'd  been  to  forget  Roslyn — Roslyn,  and 
Primrose  Court,  and  Tom  Studleigh  and  Mrs. 
Tom!  It  was  only  a  half-hour's  run,  at  most. 
Come  to  think  of  it,  I  had  had  a  note  from 
Mrs.  Tom  inviting  me  down  for  the  week 
end,  and  to-day  was  Saturday,  of  course. 

That  made  it  bad  again;  there  were  bound 
to  be  other  guests.  Still,  Mrs.  Tom  never  had 
many  people  down  for  over  Sunday.  I  could 
run  over  and  see  how  the  land  lay;  if  I  didn't 
like  the  looks  of  things,  I  needn't  stay.  Also, 
99 


ioo    A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

I  could  telephone  to  Collins  from  there,  and 
have  him  bring  my  things — clothes  and 
check-book.  Best  of  all,  I  could  borrow  what 
money  I  needed  from  Tom. 

I  didn't  need  money  half  so  much  as  I 
needed  sympathy,  though.  Yes,  sympathy 
was  what  William  Snowden  needed  most  just 
now — sympathy  and  advice.  I  could  count 
on  dear  old  Tom  for  advice.  Oh,  rather! 
And  Mrs.  Tom  would  be  sympathetic,  and 
kind,  and  motherly  in  a  nice  way;  she'd  make 
a  fuss  over  me,  and  ask  me  all  about  Marian, 
too.  That's  what  I  really  wanted :  to  talk  to 
somebody  about  Marian,  and  to  have  some 
body  pat  me  on  the  head  and  tell  me  I  was  a 
silly,  sentimental  young  thing.  I  wanted 
something  to  eat,  too. 

Roslyn  it  was,  then — Primrose  Court  with 
a  hop,  skip  and  a  jump.  Toot!  Toot! 

What  matter  if  I  was  arrested  for  speeding  ? 
Tom  could  bail  me  out.  What's  the  use  of 
having  six  cylinders  if  a  fellow  isn't  allowed 
to  enjoy  them  ?  One  might  as  well  own  a 
one-cylinder  car! 

The  faster  I  flew,  the  more  recklessly  defi 
ant  I  became.  I  didn't  care  if  Mrs.  Tom  had 
forty  guests  stopping  with  her;  I  didn't  care 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP    xoi 

if  every  single  one  of  them  had  read  about  my 
arrest  in  the  Dispatch;  further,  I  didn't  care 
a  continental  for  anybody's  opinion  of  me — 
except  Marian's,  of  course — and,  further  still, 
I  never  would.  In  this  enviable  frame  of 
mind,  I  passed  the  Lodge  and  turned  into 
the  avenue  leading  to  Primrose  Court. 

The  Lodge,  by  the  way,  was  an  exact  copy 
of  one  adorning  Lord  Wimbleton's  Hertford 
shire  estate.  Indeed,  Primrose  Court,  stables, 
kennels  and  all,  had  been  cribbed  from  that 
worthy  gentleman's  possessions. 

Not  that  Wimbleton  minded  it.  He  and 
Tom  were  thick  as  thieves,  and  it  made  him 
feel  "deuced  comfortable  to  visit  a  place 
tvhere  a  fellah  can  find  his  way  about  with  his 
eyes  shut,  don'tcher  know?" 

Good  old  Tom,  with  his  hothouses  full  of 
orchids  (Lord  Wimbleton  collected  orchids) 
with  his  sheep-infested  lawns  ("a  bally  nui 
sance,  sheep,  but  you  ought  to  see  Wimble- 
ton's!"),  and  his  picture-gallery  full  of  bogus 
Old  Masters!  How  often  have  I  called  him 
a  silly  copy-cat,  and  begged  Wimbleton  to 
build  a  garage  at  Wimbleton  Towers,  so  that 
Tom  might  feel  at  liberty  to  add  one  to  his 
ten-year-old  ancestral  pile. 


102    A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

But  Lord  Wimbleton  couldn't  afford  ga 
rages;  he  could  hardly  afford  to  keep  up 
Wimbleton  Towers.  As  for  Tom,  Tom  in 
sisted  that  his  stables  were  good  enough  for 
the  best  automobile  ever  built,  and  if  he 
risked  setting  them  on  fire,  his  guests  could, 
too.  Besides,  there  wasn't  any  risk.  If  any 
one  thought  there  was,  he'd  show  them  his 
insurance  policies  with  their  special  gasoline 
clause. 

So  I  glided  along  the  main  avenue  of  Tom's 
imported  paradise,  dodging  three  Southdown 
sheep  and  a  wicked  old  ram,  and  tooting 
vindictively  at  the  screaming  peacocks  on  the 
terraces. 

Should  I  stop  under  the  porte-cochere,  or 
make  a  dash  for  the  stables  ?  Should  I  enter 
the  house  by  the  front  door,  a  side  door  or  a 
back  door  ?  (Fortunately,  all  the  servants 
knew  me,  and  would  extend  me  the  courtesy 
of  the  coal  chute,  if  I  insisted  upon  it.)  Or 
should  I  send  one  of  the  grooms  to  Tom  with 
a  note  ? 

Bah!  What  a  coward  I  was  getting  to  be! 
I'd  stop  under  the  porte-cocbkre  like  any  other 
invited,  self-respecting  guest.  I'd  pay  my 
respects  to  my  hostess  first,  and  attend  to 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP    103 

driving  my  car  to  the  stables  afterward. 
Passing  a  last  mournful,  expatriated  sheep, 
I  emerged  into  full  view  of  Primrose  Court. 

A  friendly  shout  welcomed  me  from  the 
terrace  in  front  of  the  house.  Two  auto 
mobiles  blocked  the  entrance  to  the  porte- 
cochbre. 

"You're  just  in  time,  Billy,"  called  Mrs. 
Tom,  as,  changing  my  course,  I  drew  up 
within  easy  range.  "We're  all  going  over  to 
the  Country  Club  for  tea." 

"There's  a  match  on,"  announced  Tom. 

"How's  the  mad  young  millionaire  to-day  ?" 
inquired  fat  Sam  Partridge. 

"Cut  it,  Sam,"  commanded  Mrs.  Badmin- 
ton-Eckles.  "  He  sha'n't  tease  you,  Billy." 

"You've  got  to  tell  me  all  about  it,"  said 
pretty,  blond  Mrs.  Willie  Hemington. 

"Everybody  confides  in  Mrs.  Willie,"  de 
clared  Jack  Vernon,  her  callow  admirer. 

"Except  Willie,"  I  reminded  him. 

"Stop  fighting,  Billy,"  said  Mrs.  Tom. 
"If  you  want  to  be  decent,  you  can  wait  here 
for  the  primping  young  lady  and  the  fastidious 
young  man  who  are  delaying  our  departure. 
We're  late  enough  as  it  is." 

"I'm  frightfully  hungry,"  I  objected,  "and 


104    A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

I  want  to  telephone  to  Collins.     I  came  off 
without  any  clothes." 

"But  you  can  telephone  from  the  club.'* 

"All  right,"  I  said;   "I'll  do  it." 

"By-by,  Billy." 

"By-by,  folkses." 

"See  you  later,  old  man." 

"Don't  forget  to  order  tea  for  me,"  I  called 
after  them.  "I  say,  whom  am  I  waiting  for, 
anyway  ? " 

"Whom  do  you  suppose?"  asked  young 
Vernon,  who  was  tagging  along  after  Mrs. 
Willie  Hemington. 

"I'm  no  mind-reader,"  I  answered  testily. 

"Don't  be  a  bear,  Billy,"  said  Mrs.  Tom. 
"You're  waiting  for  Jimmie  Redmond." 

"Jimmie  Redmond!"  I  cried. 

"And  a  pretty  girl  from  San  Francisco," 
interrupted  Sam  Partridge. 

"Maybe  you've  met  her,"  said  Mrs.  Tom. 
"She's  the  niece  of  an  old  friend  of  mother's 
Her  name's  Standish — Marian  Standish." 


XIX 

MARIAN  STANDISH  at  Primrose 
Court!     At  first   I   could   neither 
believe    my   ears    nor   credit    my 
good  fortune.    It  seemed  too  wonderful  to  be 

O 

true.  It  was  too  wonderful  to  be  true.  Yet 
Mrs.  Tom  was  not  the  sort  to  kindle  false 
hopes.  Maybe  it  was  true,  after  all. 

How  like  Jimmie  to  bob  up  at  this  time — • 
at  this  time  of  all  others.  I  only  hoped  he 
would  appear  on  the  terrace  before  Marian 
did. 

No,  by  George,  I  hoped  Marian  would 
appear  first! 

It  would  be  frightfully  embarrassing  with 
out  Jimmie  to  help  explain  things,  though. 
Come  to  think  of  it,  I  had  never  been  prop 
erly  introduced  to  Marian;  I  could  hardly 
manage  that  by  myself.  It  was  common- 
105 


106   A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

sense,  then,  to  wish  that  Jimmie  would  show 
up  first. 

No,  it  wasn't,  either. 

Yes,  it  was,  too. 

What  I  wished  most  at  that  moment,  if  you 
want  the  truth,  was  that  I  could  cut  and  run. 
You  may  despise  me  for  a  coward,  if  you  will, 
but  the  idea  of  facing  Marian  after  all  that 
had  happened — What  would  she  say  to  me  ? 
Would  she  say  anything  ?  How,  in  Heaven's 
name,  was  I  to  explain  things,  if  she  refused 
to  speak  to  me  ?  She  might  very  well  refuse 
to  speak  to  me.  She  would  be  entirely  justi 
fied  in  refusing.  No  doubt,  she  would  refuse. 

On  the  whole,  I  much  preferred  that  Jimmie 
should  appear  first.  Not  that  a  preference 
of  mine  counted  for  anything.  It  was  up  to 
Fate,  now,  and  she  would  pull  whichever 
string  she  saw  fit. 

It  was  quite  out  of  my  calculations  that  Fate 
could  pull  two  strings  at  once,  and  when,  a 
moment  later,  the  front  door  swung  open  and 
Jimmie  and  Marian  stepped  out  on  the  ter 
race  together,  I  was  too  completely  taken  by 
surprise  to  do  more  than  sit  still  and  stare, 
with  the  word  "Astonishment"  written  all 
over  me. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP    107 

Not  that  I  was  the  only  still,  staring  and 
astonished  young  person;  there  were  two 
others  on  the  terrace,  equally  still,  equally 
staring,  equally  astonished.  And  one  of  them 
was  a  Goddess,  a  dear,  bewitching  slip  of  a 
Goddess,  and  the  other  was  an  Oaf,  a  grimac 
ing,  imbecile  young  Oaf  who  desolated  the 
landscape  by  his  presence. 

How  long  William  Snowden  sat  and  stared 
at  the  Oaf  and  the  Goddess,  how  long  the 
Oaf  and  the  Goddess  stood  and  stared  at 
William  Snowden,  I  don't  pretend  to  know. 
In  justice  to  the  Oaf,  I  must  admit  that  it  was 
he,  after  all,  who  saved  the  situation.  The 
Oaf  laughed — a  Heaven-born  laugh  for  which 
I  blessed  him  then,  for  which  I  shall  always 
bless  him. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  he  roared.  "Well,  if  this 
isn't  the  best  ever!  Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

"I'm  glad  to  afford  you  amusement,"  I 
said,  glancing  at  Marian,  who  was  smiling— 
yes,  actually  smiling! 

"Ha!*ha!  ha!"  laughed  Jimmie.  "What 
are  you  doing  here,  Billy  Snowden  ?" 

"I'm  here,  by  Mrs.  Tom's  orders,  to  take 
her  two  tardy  guests  to  the  Country  Club," 
I  explained. 


io8    A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

"He's  here  to  take  us  to  the  Country  Club/' 
giggled  Jimmie. 

Suddenly  remembering  my  manners,  I 
clambered  down  from  the  car  and  removed 
my  cap.  "I  hope  to  have  that  honor,"  I  said. 

Having  established  this  splendid  precedent 
of  politeness,  I  now  waited  for  Jimmie  to 
remember  his  manners.  It  took  him  some 
time,  I'll  be  bound.  Indeed,  I  began  to  fear 
that  he  would  never  remember  them — worse 
still,  that  he  had  none  to  remember.  When 
at  last  he  did  give  me  the  chance  to  admit 
that  Td  never  had  the  honor  of  meeting  Miss 
Standish,  instead  of  looking  pleased,  his  eye 
brows  actually  disappeared  into  his  hat  with 
surprise. 

"Why,  I  thought  of  course  you  knew  each 
other,"  he  blundered. 

It  was  no  end  embarrassing:  all  around,  and 

O 

I  hastily  changed  the  subject.  "Mrs.  Tom 
will  never  forgive  me  if  you  fail  to  show  up  at 
the  Country  Club,"  I  said. 

"That's  so,"  said  Jimmie;  "I'd  forgotten 
all  about  the  Country  Club.  Shall  we  let  Mr. 
Snowden  drive  us  over,  Miss  Standish  ?" 

"I  see  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't,"  she 
replied. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP    109 

"Of  course,  if  Mr.  Redmond  doesn't  care 
to  go "  I  began. 

"Oh,  I'm  going!"  said  Jimmie.  "Don't 
worry.  Miss  Standish  and  I  will  sit  in  the 
tonneau." 

Inwardly  cursing  Jimmie  for  an  officious 
little  devil,  I  cranked  viciously,  then,  climbing 
into  my  seat  in  front,  swung  the  car  sharply 
around.  In  another  moment  my  passengers 
were  safe  in  the  tonneau.  Once  more  Marian 
was  going  ride-a-by  with  Bill  Snow — with 
Jimmie  Redmond  too,  worse  luck! 

I  was  on  the  point  of  throwing  in  the  clutch 
when  Jimmie  asked  if  I  hadn't  a  rug  of  some 
sort. 

No,  I  hadn't  a  rug. 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  Miss  Standish  will 
freeze  to  df  ath  without  one." 

It  was  a  beautifully  warm  afternoon;  never 
theless  Jimmie  quite  unceremoniously  bolted 
for  the  house.  As  he  passed  me,  he  winked — 
at  least,  I  thought  he  winked. 

"I'll  be  back  with  a  rug  in  forty  shakes!" 
he  called  from  the  terrace,  before  disappearing 
into  the  house. 

Would  you  believe  that  it  took  twenty  of 
those  forty  shakes  for  me  to  realize  what  it 


no    A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

was  Jimmie  had  meant  by  that  wink  ?  Why, 
the  dear, good,  thoughtful  fellow  had  even  shut 
the  tonneau  door  before  leaving!  Here  was 
my  chance,  the  chance  for  which  I  had  prayed 
so  fervently.  Here  it  was  at  last,  a  gift  from 
the  gods — and  Jimmie  Redmond. 

With  my  heart  in  my  mouth,  I  speeded  up 
my  engine  and  threw  in  my  clutch.  Hurrah, 
we  were  off! 

I  glanced  behind  me  at  Marian's  startled 
face;  at  Jimmie,  who,  having  emerged  from 
the  house,  was  dancing  a  war-dance  on  the 
terrace. 

A  moment  later  we  whizzed  past  the  Lodge 
and  into  a  road  that  did  not  lead  to  the 
Country  Club. 


XX 

IN    the  exhilaration    of   the    moment,    I 
felt  as  brave  as  a  lion.     Marian  safe  in 
the  tonneau,   Bill   Snow  at  the  wheel, 
what  more  could  I  ask  ?     The  road,  unlike 
the  course  of  true  love,  stretched  before  us 
smooth  as  glass;   the  coils  hummed  merrily 
to  a  six-cylinder  accompaniment. 

There  is  no  music  more  pleasing  to  the  ear, 
it  seems  to  me,  than  this  music  of  coil  and 
cylinder.  Even  so,  the  music  is  monotonous, 
you  say.  Why  not  vary  it,  then  ?  You  wish 
a  change  in  tempo?  Certainly.  A  sextet  of 
cylinders  will  obey  the  throttle  as  readily  as 
your  trained  musician  obeys  his  conductor's 
baton;  one  can  manage  a  beautiful  crescendo 
whenever  one  pleases;  an  artistic  diminuendo 
may  be  introduced  at  any  moment.  If  it  is 
your  desire  to  climb  yonder  hill  pianissimo? 
in 


H2    A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

try  the  third  speed;  if  you  prefer  to  mount  it 
fortissimo,  engage  the  second  speed  and  the 
muffler  cut-out. 

But  enough  of  these  musician-like  maunder- 
ings!  Let  us  return  to  the  road  stretching 
before  us  smooth  as  glass,  to  Marian  in  the 
tonneau,  to  Bill  Snow  at  the  wheel. 

Except  that  I  should  have  very  much  pre 
ferred  having  Marian  on  the  front  seat  beside 
me,  my  happiness  was  complete,  till  I  fell  to 
wondering  how  she  was  taking  it;  what  she 
was  thinking.  Was  she  angry  ? 

At  this  stage  my  courage  deserted  me  com 
pletely;  I  wasn't  a  brave  lion  at  all — 1  was  a 
lamb,  a  timid,  cowardly  lamb.  By  Jove,  I 
mustn't  show  it,  though!  I'd  glance  over 
my  shoulder  at  the  next  telegraph  pole  and 
see  for  myself  how  she  was  taking  it.  I  passed 
that  pole,  and  the  next,  and  the  next — in  all, 
I  counted  thirty-three  poles — and  still  I  lacked 
the  requisite  courage. 

Perhaps  I'd  manage  it  when  I  reached  that 
tree  yonder.  I  throttled  down  the  engine  so 
as  not  to  reach  the  tree  too  quickly;  I  passed 
the  tree,  only  to  discover,  alas,  that  the  cour 
age  I  sought  was  not  roosting  in  its  branches. 

Well,  if  I  couldn't  be  courageous,  I  could 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP    113 

at  least  be  reckless.  I'd  stop  the  car,  by 
George!  That's  what  I'd  do.  I'd  stop  it  now, 
this  minute.  I'd  pull  to  the  side  of  the  road 
under  that  big  beech. 

A  turn  to  the  right,  out  clutch,  down  brake, 
a  kick  for  the  switch!  There  we  were,  safe 
and  snug,  with  a  canopy  of  leaves  overhead 
to  shelter  us  from  the  sun,  and  a  dead  engine 
for  a  chaperon.  Now  to  look  into  Marian's 
eyes — to  explain,  to  plead,  to  placate.  Trem 
bling  with  eagerness  and  apprehension,  I 
faced  squarely  about. 

I  didn't  speak  first,  she  didn't  speak  first; 
nobody  spoke  first.  Perhaps  you,  yourself, 
have  suddenly  become  tongue-tied  in  the 
presence  of  Love  ?  Perhaps  you  understand 
perfectly  the  silence  of  that  moment  ? 

Be  that  as  it  may.  I  had  faced  about  pre 
pared  to  find  an  angry  Marian,  a  haughty 
Marian,  an  indignant  Marian.  But  the  silence 
that  followed  was  neither  the  silence  of  em 
barrassment  nor  of  self-conscious  love.  It 
was  the  silence  of  despair.  For  the  face  I 
sought  was  missing,  the  door  was  open, 
the  tonneau  was  empty.  My  prisoner  had 
escaped. 


XXI 

AT  first  I  would  not  believe  it.     Ma 
rian    gone  ?    The  tonneau   empty  ? 
Impossible!    When  had  she  left  the 
car?     What  a  reckless  thing  to  do!     Why, 
she  might  have  broken  her  neck!    I  stepped 
into  the  middle  of  the  road  and  peered  anx 
iously  in  the  direction  from  which  I  had  just 
come.    No  sign  of  her  anywhere. 

I  remembered  now  that  I  had  slowed  down 
while  trying  to  gather  courage  to  glance  over 
my  shoulder.  She  must  have  escaped  then. 
I  couldn't  have  been  going  more  than  six 
miles  an  hour  at  the  time.  Why  in  thunder 
hadn't  I  glanced  over  my  shoulder  ?  It 
served  me  jolly  well  right  for  being  such  a 
coward. 

I  jumped  into  the  car  and  threw  in  the 
switch.     Would  she  take  the  spark  without 
114 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP    115 

cranking  ?  She  ought  to;  there  should  be 
plenty  of  gas  in  the  cylinders.  Just  listen  to 
that! 

In  spite  of  my  anxiety,  I  could  not  help 
but  feel  a  glow  of  satisfaction.  It  wasn't 
every  car  that  would  take  the  spark  at  the 
throw  of  the  switch.  No,  there  were  mighty 
few  that  would,  no  matter  what  the  conditions. 
Wallie  Stuart's  wouldn't.  Neither  would 
Larry  Sullivan's. 

Not  that  that  made  any  difference,  now. 
I'd  willingly  trade  my  car  for  a  penny  whistle 
if  I  could  only  find  Marian.  But  that  was 
foolish;  I  must  find  her;  there  were  no  "if's" 
about  it. 

She  would  walk  back  to  Primrose  Court, 
of  course,  and  I  could  easily  overtake  her 
before  she  reached  there.  Perhaps  she'd 
hail  the  first  wagon  that  passed,  and  ask  for 
a  lift.  No  wagons  were  passing  just  now, 
thank  goodness!  The  road  was  clear  as  far 
as  I  could  see. 

I  began  to  wonder  if  I'd  recognize  the  tree 
I  had  approached  at  six  miles  an  hour.  There 
was  no  end  of  trees  bordering  the  road.  This 
particular  one  stood  rather  by  itself,  if  I  re 
membered  rightly.  Yonder  was  a  solitary 


n6    A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

tree.  I  wasn't  approaching  it  six  miles  an 
hour,  either;  I  was  making  nearer  sixty. 

Hullo!     What  was  that  ? 

I  jammed  home  both  brakes  like  lightning, 
but  I  had  been  going  too  fast;  I  couldn't  pull 
up  in  t::i  yards,  nor  yet  in  twenty.  It  took 
me  a  good  forty  before  I  dared  risk  turning 
around. 

Once  faced  about,  I  approached  the  tree, 
stopping  short  at  its  base.  For,  lo,  I  had 
found  Marian.  There  she  was,  sitting  on  a 
boulder  beside  the  tree. 

So  she  hadn't  run  away,  after  all.  Why 
hadn't  she  ?  Maybe  she  had  sprained  her 
ankle  ?  If  she  had,  I'd  never  forgive  myself 
— never!  That  was  it,  of  course:  she  had 
sprained  her  ankle. 

I  now  hurriedly  descended  from  the  car. 
"You  are  hurt!"  I  cried  in  accents  of  real 
distress. 

She  looked  up  at  me  in  the  most  adorable 
way  possible.  "No,  I  am  not  hurt,"  she 
replied  coldly. 

"Are  you  sure  ?" 

"Quite  sure." 

"  I'm  so  glad — so  very  glad !  And  now  you'll 
allow  me  to  explain  everything,  won't  you  ?" 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP    117 

"I  don't  think  I  care  to  listen  to  explana 
tions  just  now,  Mr.  Snowden." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  allow  me  to  ex 
plain!" 

"Really,  Mr.  Snowden " 

"  You  see  it  was  like  this :  Jimmie  Redmond 
and  I  were  coming  in  from  Ardsley,  and  Jim 
mie  got  a  speck  of  dust  in  his  eye,  so  we 
stopped  at  the  drug  store,  and  — 

"Please  don't  bother,"  she  interrupted. 

"It's  no  bother,"  I  said.  "And  while 
Jimmie  was  in  the  drug  store  having  his  eye 
attended  to " 

"I  must  beg  you  to  excuse  me,  Mr.  Snow 
den." 

"Oh,  but  I  simply  have  to  explain  how  it 
happened!" 

"It  isn't  necessary,  I  assure  you." 

"Then  I'll  skip  that  part,  if  you  wish. 
Now,  about  the  police  station,  and  my  getting 
arrested,  and  — 

"I'd  much  prefer  that  you'd  skip  that  part, 
too." 

"Oh,  but  I've  simply  got  to  explain!  If 
a  fellow  can't  explain,  how  is  he  ever  to  set 
things  right  ?" 

"Really,  Mr.  Snowden!" 


n8   A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

"You're  offended  with  me,"  I  said;  "I 
know  you  are." 

"Is  that  so  unreasonable  of  me?" 

"You  wouldn't  have  got  out  of  the  car 
while  it  was  moving,  if  you  hadn't  been,"  I 
continued. 

"I  was  led  to  believe  that  you  intended 
taking  me  to  the  Country  Club,  Mr.  Snow- 
den." 

"I  know,"  I  said.  "I  acted  abominably. 
But  if  you'd  let  me  explain  -  —  Do  you 
believe  in  love  at  first  sight  ?" 

She  gave  me  a  quick  look,  then  rose  hastily 
and  stood  beside  me. 

"  I'm  not  in  the  humor  to  listen  to  explana 
tions  this  afternoon,"  she  said. 

"  But  that  explains  everything,"  I  returned 
triumphantly.  "You  see 

"I'm  ready  to  return  to  Primrose  Court," 
she  interrupted. 

"You  see,  I  loved  you  from  the  very  first, 
and- 

"  Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Snowden." 

With  that  she  turned  on  her  heel  and 
started  down  the  road. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  I  protested.  "Aren't  you 
going  to  let  me  drive  you  back  ?" 


"  Thank  you,  but  I  prefer  to  Walk-  " 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP    119 

"I  prefer  to  walk,  thank  you." 

Then  I'd  walk,  too.  But  maybe  she'd 
relent  ?  On  the  whole,  wouldn't  it  be  better 
to  climb  into  the  car  and  follow  along,  ready 
to  give  her  a  lift  when  she  got  over  being 
angry  with  me  ? 

Yes,  that  seemed  the  best  plan.  I'd  feel 
like  an  awful  pig,  riding  while  she  walked. 
But  why  shouldn't  I  feel  like  a  pig  ? 


XXII 

MARIAN  in  her  trim  boots  marching 
defiantly  toward  Primrose  Court, 
Bill  Snow  following  timidly  in  his 
eleven-thousand-dollar  imported  automobile. 
It  was  a  picture  to  make  the  angels  weep. 
Indeed,  had  it  clouded  up  and  rained  tear 
drops   from   Heaven,  just  then,   I   shouldn't 
have  been  a  bit  surprised. 

"If  Jimmie  Redmond  could  only  see  us 
now!"  I  thought. 

I  was  mighty  glad  he  couldn't  see  us,  though. 
Maybe  if  I  was  very  humble  and  abject, 
Marian  would  listen  to  reason,  would  give 
me  another  chance.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  my  being  humble;  I  was  as  meek  as 
Moses.  If  the  meek  ever  did  inherit  the  earth, 
I'd  come  in  for  most  of  Long  Island,  by 
George!  And  I'd  trade  my  whole  inherit- 

120 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP    121 

ance  for  one  smile  from  Marian — one  fleeting, 
friendly  smile. 

I  drew  a  little  nearer — still  nearer.  I  was 
beside  her. 

"Won't  you  please  allow  me  to  drive  you 
to  Primrose  Court?"  I  asked. 

"Thank  you,  but  I  prefer  to  walk." 

"It's  a  good  three  miles,"  I  urged. 

She  walked  on  in  silence. 

"Isn't  there  something  I  can  do  or  say  to 
make  you  forgive  me,  Miss  Standish  ?" 

No  answer. 

"I  would  do  anything  in  the  world,"  I 
continued. 

Still  no  answer. 

"Anything  in  the  world,"  I  repeated 
dismally. 

"You  might  leave  me,"  she  suggested. 

"Anything  but  that!"  I  cried. 

"It  looks  perfectly  foolish  to  have  you 
tagging  along  after  me  in  an  automobile." 

"I'm  past  caring  for  looks,"  I  said. 

"I'm  not,"  she  replied. 

"  If  you'd  only  let  me  explain,"  I  pleaded 

Silence. 

"It  wouldn't  take  five  minutes." 

Silence. 


122    A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

"And  then  you'd  understand." 

Silence. 

More  silence. 

"Miss  Standish!" 

She  stopped  short. 

As  it  was  some  seconds  before  I  had  sense 
enough  to  apply  my  brakes,  I  now  led  the 
procession  by  several  yards.  Being  in  the 
lead,  however,  was  not  without  its  advan 
tages;  I  threw  in  the  reverse,  backing  in  a 
semicircle  till  I  had  planted  the  car  squarely 
across  her  path.  Then  I  jumped  to  the  ground 
beside  her. 

"Miss  Standish,"  I  said  solemnly,  "if 
you  don't  speak  to  me  this  minute  I'll 
scream." 

"Mr.  Snowden,"  she  said,  "if  you  address 
me  once  more  I'll  join  you." 

Then  we  both  laughed. 

"This  beats  screaming  all  hollow,"  I  man 
aged  to  say  a  moment  later. 

"Yes,  doesn't  it?" 

"And  explanations,  too." 

"Oh,  decidedly!"  she  agreed. 

"You  might  as  well  ride  the  rest  of  the 
way,"  I  said. 

"Supposing  I  prefer  to  walk  ?" 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP    123 

"I  don't  mind  tagging  along  in  the  auto 
mobile,"  I  said. 

"  But  it  looks  so  silly." 

"Then  you  will  ride  back  in  the  car,  won't 
you  ?  " 

"Of  course  it  is  understood  that  I  shall 
pay  you  your  regular  rate 

"1  haven't  any  rate,"  I  replied  shortly. 

" Of  two  dollars  and  a  half  an  hour," 

she  continued. 

"You  are  unnecessarily  cruel,  Miss 
Standish." 

"  I  owe  you  eight  dollars  as  it  is,  Mr.  Snow- 
den:  five  for  car-hire,  and  three  for  the 
chauffeur  who  drove  us  in  from  the  restaurant 
that  night.  If  I  had  only  thought  to  bring 

my  purse  with  me  But  I  can  pay  you 

when  we  reach   Primrose  Court.     I  always 
pay  my  debts,  Mr.  Snowden." 

-"  I  shall  expect  you  to  sit  beside  me  on  the 
front  seat,  you  know." 

"Is  that  necessary?" 

"Oh,  quite!" 

With  that  I  helped  her  into  the  car. 

How  wonderful  it  was  to  have  her  there 
beside  me!  I  quite  lost  my  head  with  happi 
ness.  Instinctively,  I  advanced  the  spark, 


124    A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

opened  the  throttle  and  threw  in  the  clutch. 
And  then.  .  .  . 

It  was  too  awful.  Instead  of  moving  out 
into  the  road,  the  car  leaped  backward  like 
a  wild  thing. 

Crash!   crash!    crash!    Crunch!     BANG! 

I  had  forgotten  to  change  speeds.  I  had 
started  her  on  the  reverse. 

And  that  sound  of  splintering  metal — 
that  was  my  gasoline  tank  gone  to  glory 
against  a  boulder  or  something.  And  the 
gasoline  would  drip  on  to  the  red-hot  exhaust 
pipe  leading  from  the  muffler — and  then — 
and  then — while  there  might  not  be  an 
explosion  - 

"Miss  Standish,"  I  said  quietly,  "I  fear 
we  have  met  with  a  grave  accident.  Please 
get  out." 

She  obeyed  instantly. 

"Now  please  cross  to  the  other  side  of  the 
road." 

"And  you?" 

"Go  at  once." 

"But  » 

"Go!"  I  thundered. 

She  went. 


XXIII 

I  NOW  tore  off  my  dust-coat  and  jumped 
from  the  car. 
Yes,  she  was  afire.     And  the  tank  held 
forty  gallons  of  gasoline! 

Gad,  what  a  blaze!  And  no  rug  to  smother 
it  with — nothing  but  a  flimsy  dust-coat! 

I  tore  off  my  other  coat,  and  with  it  tried 
to  beat  out  the  flames;  but  the  fire,  fed  from 
the  hole  in  the  tank,  spread  in  spite  of  me, 
ran  here  and  there  in  little  rivers,  mounted 
higher  and  higher,  scorching  the  back  of  the 
tonneau,  shriveling  the  paint.  The  more 
desperately  I  flayed  it  with  my  coat,  the 
faster  it  seemed  to  burn.  My  coat  was  on 
fire! 

I  cast  it  aside  and,  scooping  up  handfuls 
of  dust,  renewed  the  attack.  That  was  the 

stuff!    If  I  could  only  put  out  the  fire  directly 
125 


iz6    A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

under  the  hole  in  the  tank,  I'd  win.  Lordy, 
but  it  was  hot! 

Bang! 

The  gasoline  had  begun  to  vaporize. 

Bang!  Bang! 

She  was  vaporizing  to  beat  the  band. 

I  kicked  dust,  I  burrowed  in  it  like  a  dog, 
1  filled  my  cap  with  it.  I'd  try  to  stuff  the 
cap  into  the  hole  in  the  tank.  Why  hadn't 
I  thought  of  it  before  ? 

BOOM! 

A  sheet  of  flame  shot  heavenward.  Ex 
plosion  followed  explosion. 

BOOM!    BOOM! 

I  jumped  back  involuntarily,  and  bumped 
into  something.  There  was  a  hand  on  my 
arm.  It  was  Marian! 

"Go  away!"  I  yelled. 

She  did  not  move.  A  gust  of  wind  drove 
the  flame  almost  into  our  faces. 

I  picked  her  up,  as  if  she'd  been  a  child, 
and  hurried  down  the  road. 

At  a  safe  distance  I  set  her  down,  then 
turned  abruptly.  The  tonneau  was  now  a 
blazing  furnace.  There  was  a  hopeless 
smell  of  melting  rubber.  It  was  as  gloomy 
as  a  funeral. 


At  a  safe  distance,  I  set  her  down  ;  then  turned  abruptly. 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP    127 

The  flames  leaped  higher  and  higher. 
They  leaped  forward  like  a  pack  of  wolves, 
licking  and  spitting.  I  could  bear  to  look 
no  longer.  My  dear  old  car  was  done  for,  I 
was  dirty  and  dusty  and  forlorn;  my  cap 
was  gone,  my  coat  was  gone,  my  hands  were 
blistered,  and — it  was  all  my  fault. 

What  a  rotten  place  for  a  gasoline  tank, 
anyway!  Would  Frenchmen  never  learn 
that  the  proper  way  to  feed  gasoline  was  by 
gravity,  that  the  proper  place  for  a  tank  was 
under  the  seat.? 

BOOM! 

That  was  the  biggest  explosion  yet.  And 
to  think 

A  voice  interrupted  my  thoughts.  "It's 
too  bad,  Mr.  Snowden." 

"It  was  all  my  own  fault,"  I  said.  "I  for 
got  to  change  speeds,  and  started  her  on  the 
reverse." 

"It  was  such  a  beautiful  car,  and  I'm  so 
sorry." 

"It  was  a  bully  car,  and  I  loved  it." 

"Poor  Bill  Snow!"  she  murmured. 

"To  hear  you  say  that  is  worth  all  the 
cars  in  the  world,"  I  said.  "Won't  you 
understand,  dear  ?  I  don't  care  for  any- 


128    A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

thing  in  the  world  but  you.  I  loved  you  the 
first  time  I  saw  you.  I  - 

"Please  don't,"  sne  pleaded. 

"All  right,  I  won't.  But  you  do  under 
stand,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  I  understand — that  is,  I  under 
stand  everything  except  how  the  car  caught 
fire." 

"I  bumped  into  a  boulder  and  smashed 
the  gasoline  tank,"  I  explained.  "And  now 
I  can't  drive  you  back  to  Primrose  Court." 

"We  can  walk." 

"But  it's  a  good  three  miles." 

"I  can  walk  three  miles  very  easily.  Be 
sides,  we  may  be  able  to  persuade  a  passing 
wagon  to  give  us  a  lift." 

"It  takes  money  to  persuade  passing 
wagons,  and  I've  only  a  dollar  and  seven 
cents.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I've  only  a  dollar; 
the  seven  cents  was  in  a  pocket  of  my  dust- 
coat,  and  I  dropped  that  by  the  auto 
mobile." 

"Poor  dust-coat!  Still,  a  dollar  should 
be  quite  enough." 

"But  I  can't  part  with  my  dollar,"  I  said; 
"it's  the  one  you  gave  me  the  first  time  you 
went  riding  with  Bill  Snow.  It  wasn't  till 


A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP    129 

I  ordered  luncheon  to-day  that  I  discovered 
I'd  come  off  without  any  money,  and  — 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  went  without 
luncheon  rather  than  spend  my  dollar?" 

"Of  course  I  did.  Do  you  think  I  could 
spend  that  dollar  ?  Why,  I've  kissed  it 
heaps  of  times!  I  can't  show  it  to  you  now 
because  it's  sewed  into  my  waistcoat  pocket; 
I  sewed  it  in  myself  for  fear  of  losing  it." 

She  looked  at  me  thoughtfully.  "I  believe 
you  do  love  me,"  she  said. 

"I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how  much  I 
love  you,"  I  replied,  "or  how  I've  worried 
about  that  handsome  chap  who  dined  with 
you  that  night." 

"My  silly  cousin?" 

"He  called  you  'dear';  I  heard  him." 

"He  was  properly  disciplined  for  that,  Mr. 
Snowden." 

"Say  Bill,"  I  urged. 

"Not  now." 

"Will  you,  sometime?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Soon?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Why  not  now?" 

"Oh  5" 


130    A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP 

"But  you  will,  sometime?" 
"Ye— es." 

"And  you  do  care  for  me  a  little?" 
"Ye— es,  Bill." 

I  promptly  clasped  her  in  my  arms  and 
kissed  her. 


(THE  END) 


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